


The Last Secret

by Jadesfire



Series: The Name and The Knowing [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, fork in the road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>All confidence which is not absolute and entire, is dangerous. There are few occasions but where a man ought either to say all, or conceal all; for, how little so ever you have revealed of your secret to a friend, you have already said too much if you think it not safe to make him privy to all particulars. </i>  Francis Beaumont</p><p>Merlin has rescued Arthur from Camelot before it fell to Morgana, but when he is forced to reveal one secret, the others come tumbling out as well. Balancing his responsibilities as dragonlord, sorcerer and king’s manservant has never been easy, but doing it all at the same time is going to take a lot of work.</p><p>And there is always one more secret to be told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Genfic. Background Arthur/Gwen, but focus is Merlin&Arthur friendship.
> 
> Includes dialogue from ‘The Sword in the Stone’ and ‘The Diamond of the Day’, although the story itself is a fork in the road from ‘The Sword in the Stone.’ I hope that I’ve managed to include at least some of what my prompter wanted for their story. I also learned an important lesson while writing this: when in doubt, add more dragons.
> 
> Beta thanks to follow - after putting up with my complaints, re-drafts and endless flailing, they know who they are - but suffice it to say without them, nothing. Remaining mistakes are all my own work.

  
_Heroes take journeys, confront dragons, and discover the treasure of their true selves._  
Carol Lynn Pearson

Merlin has just about let go of some of the breathless tension that he’s been holding since they left Elyan - no, since Elyan sent them on, saved them - and he’s starting to think that this might actually work. True, the spell he used on Arthur is rather stronger than he intended, but even that might not be such a bad thing if it gets him all the way to Ealdor without argument. They’re fleeing for their lives, and he really doesn’t have time to stop and debate the best way of going about it. Of course, as is guaranteed when he starts to think things might actually be going well, that’s when it happens.

The cry is so loud that Merlin stumbles, his hands going to his head automatically as he tries to get his balance back. The next cry is just as piercing, cutting through him like a knife, and he lifts his face to the sky automatically, searching for the source. He can’t see anything, no dark shape against the clouds, which means the cry was probably in his mind, so he comes to a stop, putting out a hand to halt Arthur as well, and closes his eyes, trying to focus.

"Wow, that must be a really big bird."

Merlin opens one eye, squinting at Arthur because if the cry is psychic, there’s no way he should be able to hear them. Then it comes again, sharper and higher this time and definitely echoing inside his head. But even as he closes his eyes, he notices something else. A real cry, ringing in his ears and shattering the quiet of the forest.

"Are you alright?" The voice is awfully close, and when Merlin opens his eyes, Arthur’s face is about half an inch from his own. He jumps back automatically, looking carefully into Arthur’s slightly puzzled expression. There’s no hint of alarm there, nothing to suggest that Arthur is worried by the sound. The blankness is starting to unnerve him, except that Arthur is looking away now, frowning with what seems to be effort of thought as another scream washes over them. It’s enough of a reaction that Merlin lets himself feel a surge of hope, and he grips Arthur’s shoulders urgently.

"Arthur, can you tell which way the sound is coming from? Can you take me to it?" Because, addled or not, Merlin’s willing to bet that Arthur is still the best tracker in the kingdom and those instincts are still lurking under there somewhere. The cry rings out, and Merlin tries to brace against it, holding onto Arthur to stay upright. It’s too much for him, trying to hang on to his own mind against the panic, and he doesn’t have the concentration to try to work out where the sound is coming from. "Please, Arthur?" he grinds out, clenching his teeth against the pain.

Arthur’s frown deepens in what is probably great effort for him right at this moment, then he straightens and turns in a slow circle, making Merlin stumble again as he loses his grip. Before Merlin can say anything, Arthur is striding off into the forest, making as much noise as an army on a forced march and not checking if Merlin is keeping up. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Merlin hurries after him, trying to send out calming thoughts.

 _"It’s alright,"_ he thinks, broadcasting the words and reassurance as far as he can. _"We’re coming."_

~

He'd been right about Arthur's instincts, and they're soon hiding behind a screen of trees, watching the scene in the clearing just down the slope below. There's a covered wagon off to one side, and enough people with sharp weapons around that despite the urgency still pulling at his heart, Merlin makes himself stop, wait, _think._ They're well hidden by the trees here, so despite his harsh breathing and Arthur's current inability to keep his head down, he's not worried about being spotted. He doesn't think anyone will notice them right now, and probably wouldn't even if they were a platoon of knights in full Camelot regalia.

Not when there's a screaming, thrashing white dragon in the centre of the clearing.

He tries to reach out with his mind, to calm Aithusa enough that the screaming will stop, because every cry is cutting through him, making it hard to think of anything but _protect, protect, protect._ But there's no way Merlin will be heard through the dragon’s panic and he doesn't honestly blame her for that. Trapped under a net, surrounded by people who only seem to be kept at bay by her screaming and thrashing, it would be impossible for any creature to keep its wits.

Arthur puts his fingers in his ears as another cry rips through the clearing, and turns to Merlin, waiting. For a moment, Merlin is regretting casting the artless spell, wishes that Arthur would glare at him and tell him what he's supposed to do, how they’re going to solve this. All he gets in return is that blank, expectant look that Arthur has been giving him all day, the one that says he will do whatever Merlin tells him, because Merlin is the one in charge. He’s used to having to make decisions for Arthur to protect him, but those are from the shadows, where no one has to know and he doesn’t have to explain it to anyone but Gaius, who always knows better anyway. Doing it when Arthur is right in front of him is completely different. Between that and the pressure in his mind from Aithusa, Merlin has to swallow back a surge of panic. He's been carrying responsibility for both King and dragon for long enough now that he thought he had them balanced. With them both here, both looking to him for help, he suddenly feels crushed, head going light as Aithusa's cry dies away, trailing into a horrible, helpless whine. He can't let either of them down.

Pushing at Arthur's shoulder, he shoves the other man into the cover of an arching tree root, crouching in front of him.

"Stay here. Stay. Do you understand? Of course you don't. But do it anyway. Don't move until I come back." The shelter isn't much, but it will keep Arthur safe from cursory glances, as well as stopping him from seeing down into the clearing. "Stay," he says once more, looking into Arthur's eyes and pushing back the worry that comes from seeing nothing looking back at him. Not to mention what will happen if Arthur follows him into the fight. He just has to hope he made the instruction strong enough.

Then he gets to his feet, bracing himself against the churning of his stomach, and starts to scramble down the slope. The people in the clearing have got Aithusa surrounded now, swords and spears and arrows all pointed at her. Aithusa is crouched close to the ground, the spines along her back flattened and her ears low against her head. Her tail is still thrashing and her head is moving from side to side as much as she can, trying to track the movements around her. But she's still too small, not strong or coordinated enough to break herself free, save herself. Then again, she shouldn't have to. That's Merlin's job.

"Stop!" he shouts as one of the spear-holders moves closer, making as though to prod Aithusa in the side with the tip. He has their attention now, feeling every eye on him as he slides down the last few feet of the slope and skids to a stop. Holding up his hands, not sure whether he’s trying to stall them or reacting instinctively to having that many weapons pointed in his direction, he lifts his chin a little, forcing back the fear. "Leave her alone."

"Says who?" The speaker is a tall, rangy man with straw-coloured hair and a weathered face. He’s holding his sword with a casualness that Merlin recognises as complete confidence. Merlin keeps his hands raised as the man comes a few paces closer, tilting his head as he looks him up and down. "Do you really want to do this, boy?" he asks, voice lower this time, but no less threatening for it.

Merlin swallows, glancing to Aithusa who has stilled under the net, head turned in his direction. Carefully, Merlin lowers his hands, shifting his shoulders and forcing himself to relax. There’s only about twenty of them. He’ll have to be quick and careful, but it should be manageable.

"Just let her go," he says, letting some of his own confidence bleed into his voice, knowing it will unsettle them. "Just turn around and walk away. While you can."

There’s a moment of silence, then the man gives a harsh bark of laughter, surprised and obviously unbelieving. "Are you threatening me?"

"It's a warning." Merlin looks past him, trying to see how badly Aithusa is hurt, if at all. The dragon looks frightened, her chest heaving on every breath and the end of her tail still twitching, but otherwise unharmed. In which case, this might just work.  
When he looks back, the man has come even closer, to within a sword's length of Merlin, which is probably the point. There's a wariness on the edge of his expression that suggests he's not stupid, that he suspects Merlin wouldn't be such an idiot as to walk into the middle of a group of heavily armed bandits without a plan or a way out. 

If only.

But he does have a plan now, and he closes his eyes as the man says something else, something about Merlin not being armed, but Merlin has found what he was looking for, that calmness and strength at the heart of his being that lets him reach out for Aithusa and this time, know that he has been heard. He's still sunk deep in that heady strength when he opens his eyes, looking down at the sword pressed into his chest.

"Who are you?" the man says, leaning forwards just a little, so that Merlin feels the point against his breastbone.

Merlin smiles at him, liking how the man's face tightens into something closer to caution, maybe even an edge of fear. "I'm the last dragonlord," he says, as matter-of-fact as he can when his heart is suddenly light and free, borne up by the rush of power. "Now would be a good time to start running."

Before the man can react, Merlin lets his magic come to the surface, flinging out a hand to throw the man backwards as he shouts to Aithusa, trusting that with their proximity and the power flowing through him like this, she’ll obey instinctively. _"Αιθουσα! Αναπυρου!"_

The clearing fills with flame, driving the bandits back, shielding their faces. The charred remains of the net fall from Aithusa's head, and she shakes herself free, a second jet of fire bursting from her mouth. Merlin takes it, sweeping the flames around the clearing in a wide circle so that they are surrounded, the smell of burning wood and smouldering leaves filling the air. The man he struck with his magic is lying on the ground, a woman leaning over him, her own sword in hand as she looks up at Merlin, fear and anger in her face. The rest of the bandits are cowering around the edge of the clearing, and not only for fear of being burned alive. Aithusa is pulling herself free of the net, claws dragging at the rope and her tail making long sweeps through the leaf litter.  
Merlin holds the power and the fire for another long moment, letting them see the gold in his eyes that isn’t just a reflection of the flames. Then he lets it all go, dousing the fire and lowering his hand, taking a carefully deep breath and trying not to choke on the smoke filling the air. Without looking at any of them, he makes his way over to Aithusa, pulling the last of the net away and running his hand down the dragon’s side, checking for damage. He’s pointedly ignoring everyone around him, letting them draw their own conclusions about what might happen if they stick around. 

So he’s facing entirely the wrong way when an all too familiar voice says, "Is that a dragon?"

~

Merlin’s aware that his hands are shaking as the energy that drove him forwards bleeds away. He tightens them into fists, not entirely displeased at how at least three people around him raise their swords a little. His power is the only bargaining chip he has right now, and he needs them to remember what he can do. And what Aithusa can do. For once, Kilgharrah might actually approve.

_"Again, Merlin."_

_So far, they'd managed to burn their way through a tree's worth of wood, but the great dragon still didn't seem to be satisfied. Even Aithusa seemed to be glaring at him, for all that she was barely the size of one of Kilgharrah’s claws._

_"I think we get the idea, Kilgharrah." Merlin had ash all over him, sticking to the back of his hands and making his nose itch. "She can set fire to things. What more does she need?"_

_"She needs to learn control, how to summon the fire when she needs it, how to use it to fight."_

_"Well unless she gets attacked by the forest, I'm not sure there's much else she can learn here."_

_Kilgharrah tilted his head thoughtfully. "True enough. She is more likely to be attacked by a man than a log."_

_"I would have thought so." Preoccupied with trying to get some ash out of his ears, it took Merlin a moment to catch up with what the dragon had said. "Wait, what? Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"_

_"Your shield seemed most effective when you last used it against dragonfire." There was a hint of a challenge in Kilgharrah's voice, but Merlin had learned a lot since then, and he just shook his head. He wasn’t getting drawn into that argument again._

_"I am not going to teach her how to set people on fire, Kilgharrah," he said softly, looking up in Kilgharrah’s eyes. There must have been enough sternness in his expression, because the dragon only hesitated for a moment before lowering his head just a little._

_"Then we must hope that she never has a need to do so."_

_Sighing, Merlin reached down and scratched the smooth spot between Aithusa’s ears. However much he hoped otherwise, he knew that someday, she would probably have to defend herself, but there was no way that he was going to teach her to kill humans._

 

He’d expected the attackers to run away, chased off by the fire and the magic, but while they've retreated, they don't seem to want to abandon the wagon or the man he struck who is sitting up now, getting his breath back. The woman is still crouched protectively next to him, looking from him to Merlin and back again, making it clear that the sword in her hand is not just for show. Since he has no intention of doing anything unless they attack first, Merlin pointedly turns his back on them, shifting his attention back to Aithusa. And, of course, Arthur. 

Really, he's not sure he can think of a way in which this could be worse. He's spent the last six months doing everything he could to keep Aithusa away from Camelot, and here he is, introducing her to the King. Maybe he should just chop his own head off now and be done with it. Although to be fair, Arthur doesn't actually seem to need any introductions; he's managing quite well for himself. Arthur is kneeling in front of the little white dragon, one hand carefully stroking down her nose while the other scratches behind her ear, as though she's one of the new foals in his stables. The sight of it, of Arthur so tender and gentle and Aithusa apparently soothed by the attention, makes Merlin's stomach turn over again. If they'd met any other day...

He shakes off the thought. The here and now is quite enough to deal with without imagining what might have been.

"The last dragonlord, eh?"

Merlin turns his head a little at the words, not enough to see the man behind him, but enough to show that he's heard.

"Thought you were a myth. Dragon too." The man coughs a little, then Merlin hears the rustling of leaves and guesses he must be getting to his feet. "You know what it's worth, don't you?"

In front of Merlin, Arthur is still on his knees, crooning a little as Aithusa pushes her head into his hands.

"You think there's enough money in the world?" Merlin says, voice low and as steady as he can make it. Because this can't last, and it's going to break his heart when he has to stop it.

"Maybe not." The voice is closer behind him than expected, and Merlin turns at last, just enough to see the man's face. "But you know we're not the last ones you're going to have to fight off?" 

"I know." He raise his voice above a whisper, not with the lump stuck in his throat. Because he would tear down Camelot itself he had to, if it meant saving either one of them and here and now, with the magic humming at the back of his mind and his awareness of Aithusa rippling through him, he's tempted to try it.

He starts as someone lays a hand on his arm, and he jerks back automatically, turning and looking into the woman's huge, calm eyes. She lifts her hands quickly, placatingly.

"It's alright," she says, not unkindly, although her expression is still wary. "Where are you from?"

He doesn’t have to lie about that, at least. "Ealdor," he says. "Just over the northern border. I'm trying to get us back there."

"With no horses? No supplies?" The man sounds sceptical. "Or do you normally get them delivered by dragon?"

Merlin just shrugs, because Arthur's identity is the only secret he has left, and he will not give up that one lightly. Looking across the clearing, at the covered wagon, the barrels and sacks, an idea stirs at the back of his mind.

"Where are you heading?"

The man gives a huff of laughter. "No way. A sorcerer and a dragon are more trouble than I want to take anywhere with me."

"It’ll just be the two of us, mostly. During the day, at least. She prefers to fly. And we can pay," Merlin adds quickly, putting hand on the purse on his belt. 

That gets their attention, darting looks passing between them. The man is obviously the leader, but from the way the silent conversation is progressing, Merlin doubts he'll do anything without the woman's approval.

The man shifts a little, as though not entirely convinced yet. "Just make sure you keep that thing out of sight," he says, waving vaguely at Aithusa, who is now allowing Arthur to gently stroke her nose. "And just food and shelter. If you bring trouble down on us, you’re on your own."

"You know that just travelling with a sorcerer could be thought of as trouble," Merlin says drily. "It is illegal. You could be executed if you’re caught." He’d rather travel in company, with the loose protection that comes with numbers, but not if he’s going to be sold out as soon as they reach the next village.

There’s a wry, twisted smile on the man’s face. "Get caught? Tristan and Isolde? I don’t think so." He holds out his hand as though to shake Merlin's as he adds, "But we’ll take the money upfront."

Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin can see that Arthur has apparently tired of petting Aithusa and has turned to him, face open and trusting, waiting to be told what to do next. 

Merlin sighs, and pulls the pouch from his belt before gripping the man’s - Tristan’s - arm in agreement. "Sounds fair," he says and passes over the gold.

~

The group is able to pack up and move with suspicious speed. It’s not so easy for Merlin, trying to make sure Arthur doesn’t wander off, bother anyone or get himself in trouble while Merlin is trying to explain to Aithusa that she needs to go on ahead. It’s not safe for her with them, and Tristan’s right that a dragon is far too conspicuous a thing to be travelling with.

"You need to go," he says, trying to keep her attention on him, not on the bustling that’s going on around them. "You can join us when we stop for the night, but not until then. Do you understand?" Her head is towards him, but he knows her eyes are tracking something on the other side of the clearing. It’s like trying to catch the attention of an excitable puppy. Giving in, Merlin glances around to see if anyone is nearby, but most of the group seem to be giving them a wide berth, and Arthur is preoccupied with a pile of fallen leaves. Trying to keep his voice down, he reaches out to her as he did before, using the only voice that she really understands. _"Αιθουσα. Ιθι.Δοκαζε ἅμμε. Ὁμηρὲι ὑστερὸχρονοϛ."_

She backs away a little, her head dropping instinctively, and he feels the reluctance in her, the slight tremor that passes through her. Even after all their time together, she still doesn’t like this, doesn’t like having to obey him when she doesn’t - can’t - understand what’s going on. He’s tried to teach her human speech, or even the language of his spell books, but either she isn’t interested or is still too young to learn. He’s not even sure she understands the words he says to her in dragon-tongue, only that she understands the power behind the words and has to comply.

"That sounded funny. What did you say?" 

When Merlin turns, there’s no hostility on Arthur’s face, only curiosity and a slight distracted air, as though if Merlin doesn’t answer him right away, he’ll spot something else and wander off after it instead. It’s weird, but nice, being able to talk to Arthur like this, knowing that there won’t be any consequences afterwards. It can’t last forever, and there’s a part of Merlin - possibly the sensible part - that is telling him to hold back, that he shouldn’t be enjoying the way Arthur just accepts what he says, uncritically and unscoffingly. The rest of him is too busy enjoying it, and it’s easy to ignore the warning voice and hold out a hand to gesture for Arthur to come closer.

"I told her that she should wait for us ahead," he says. "She’ll join us when we camp for the night. Do you want to say goodbye?" It’s not just for Arthur’s sake. Merlin could feel the way Aithusa had responded to Arthur’s touch, the way she’d trusted him right away, for all that under different circumstances, he would probably have rather had her in the sights of his crossbow. 

Merlin knows it was the right decision when Aithusa comes forward a few paces, ducking around him to press her nose into Arthur’s outstretched hand. He steps back a little, letting Arthur fuss and pet her for a while, not sure whether he should be trying to remember this for the future or trying to forget it, so that when it has passed, it won’t hurt so much. 

After another moment, Aithusa swings around to look at him, huffing a little in what he thinks is a goodbye before she spreads her wings and leaps into the air, beating them hard a few times to gain height, then soaring away above the treetops. When Merlin can bring himself to look away, he sees Arthur still with his head tipped back, watching the sky as though waiting for her to return.

"Come on," Merlin says, putting a hand on his shoulder and gently starting to steer him towards the wagons. "Time to go."

~

Between a bumpy wagon ride, and Arthur sitting a lot closer to him than normal, Merlin barely manages more than a light doze, despite his body crying out for sleep. He wakes up when Tristan bangs on the side of the wagon, announcing that they’ll make camp here for the night, to find that Arthur is slumped against him, lightly drooling on his shoulder. His face is slack with sleep, and oddly, it’s like this that Merlin can see the Arthur he knows, who’s been hiding all day under a surprisingly gentle nature. He’s used to coming in to wake Arthur in the mornings, and for a moment he closes his eyes again, trying to pretend that the weak light filtering through the tiny slots in the wagon’s sides is the sun coming through the window in Arthur’s chambers in Camelot. It’s hard to do, especially when images from the previous night keep floating into his vision, supplemented by what he imagines might be happening in Camelot now.

Shaking himself hard enough to dislodge Arthur, he slides along the bench a little, getting a better look at Arthur’s face. When he’d cast the spell, he hadn’t really been sure what to expect. The idea had been to dull his intelligence, make him pliable and persuadable, just enough to get them out of the city. He hadn’t expected someone so... nice. 

Turning, Merlin looks out at the camp being set up around them. Tristan and Isolde are talking quietly, heads close together, while people swarm around them, laying out bedrolls and gathering firewood. It has the air of a practiced routine, everyone knowing what they are supposed to be doing, where they are going. He looks back at Arthur, who is now watching him patiently, obviously waiting to be told what to do next, and Merlin has to clench his jaw against the wave of frustration. What he needs is for Arthur to come back to himself, to take charge again, tell him what they are supposed to do next. He wants his king back.

He stamps hard on the feeling, forcing himself to get up and trying not to wince as the bones of his back crack horribly. There is no point worrying about it at this point. He has a plan, he has Arthur, and in a few minutes, Aithusa will be here as well. He has too much to do to let it get on top of him now.

Trusting that Arthur will follow in his own time, and knowing there are plenty of people around to make sure he doesn’t get in too much trouble, Merlin heads directly over to Tristan, who gives him a slight nod of greeting.

"We’ll camp here overnight," he says, gesturing to the clearing. "There’s a river over that way, and someone will cook something at some point." He stops, giving Merlin a thoughtful look. "Anything you can do to help with that?"

"I know how to gather firewood," Merlin says evenly, knowing exactly what Tristan means. "And last time I cooked dinner, nobody died."

To Merlin’s surprise, Tristan actually laughs at that. "Not quite what I had in mind, although both of those would be useful. But it’s been raining here, all the firewood will be soaked through." This time, there is real challenge in his voice, and Merlin looks around automatically for Arthur, wondering if he’ll overhear. He’s a little way away, lingering at the back of the wagon, and playing with some the ropes, plaiting and undoing them and generally getting in everyone’s way. When Merlin looks back, Tristan is giving both of them speculative looks. "Where did you find him?" he asks. "If he’s as much of a menace to us as he is to himself, you’d better make sure he stays out of our way. Can’t be easy, travelling with someone like him." Tristan clicks his fingers, getting the attention of one of his men, who puts a hand on Arthur’s elbow and guides him away from the boxes and chests at the back of the wagon. 

"He can’t help it." Merlin puts enough defensiveness into his voice to be convincing, he hopes. "I look after him. He wouldn’t last a day without me."

"No doubt." Pulling his attention back, Tristan raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Right. Firewood. For answer, Merlin bends and lifts one of the sticks at his feet. Tristan’s right; it must have been raining here for days, and the bark is so wet that it squelches under Merlin’s thumb. Still.

 _"Forbærne."_ He can’t do anything about the smokiness, nor about the slightly odd smell coming from the wood, but the end is aflame now, and he lifts it a little higher, letting himself enjoy the surprised smile on Tristan’s face. "I think I can help, yes," he says, killing the fire again and dropping the stick to the ground. 

Tristan’s actually grinning now, and he claps Merlin on the shoulder. "I’m going to take your word that nobody died and show you where we keep the cooking pots."

~

Getting a fire going on a wet night and ensuring everyone gets a hot meal earns Merlin the privilege of not having to collect the wood for the fire, helping himself to some extra blankets and being able to choose a campsite for himself and Arthur that will give them at least a measure of privacy.

The place he chooses is some way out from the main camp, with a good spot for laying a fire of their own, and near to the stream. The water is cold but fast flowing and clean, and he scrubs at his face and neck, trying to wash the road and some of the memories away. Beside him, Arthur tries to copy him, and mostly succeeds in half-drowning himself before Merlin yanks him out by his collar, both of them sprawling on the riverbank as Merlin tries not to laugh. 

"I know you need help dressing, but even you can normally figure out how water works," he says, then notices that Arthur isn’t paying him any attention. His eyes are on the sky, and he points at something far above them.

"Ooh. A bird." 

Merlin looks up and lets himself smile widen. "Close, but not quite."

He has to admit, a little later with a roaring fire in front of him, Aithusa’s warm body behind him, and Arthur’s shoulder bumping against his, he’s spent less pleasant nights in the forest. Tristan let him make a separate pot for him and Arthur, and the soup is herby and hearty, even if the bread is a bit tough. Arthur has never been a fussy eater, but even so, he wolfs the first bowlful down as though he’s never eaten before.

"Easy," Merlin says, gesturing with his spoon. "You’ll give yourself hiccups."

"Oh. Sorry." Arthur puts his bowl down, then twists a little to look at the dragon behind them. "Should I give some to the dragon?"

"She’s fine." There is a deep contentment rolling off Aithusa that tells Merlin she found something to eat during the day, and is happy now just to curl up with them in front of the fire she helped him light.

"What does she eat?"

"Rabbits. Squirrels. She’s a bit small for deer yet, but it won’t be long." When he glances over, Arthur is looking at him in wonder again. "Who do you think taught her to hunt?" Merlin says with a smile, nudging his shoulder a little, but Arthur just frowns.

"Another dragon?"

Merlin sighs, settling back a little. The fire is dying on his side, and he pokes at it a little with a long branch. "That’s not actually a stupid answer. For once. But no, she didn’t learn from another dragon. She learned from me. Mostly." He closes his eyes as the image rises up in his mind, not sure if he’s trying to drive it away or see more clearly. Kilgharrah had laughed - actually laughed - at his surprise.

 

_"She is a dragon, Merlin," he said, resettling his wings against his body. "She already understands how to hunt."_

_"Then what I am supposed to do?" Merlin asked, looking up in annoyance. Aithusa was still small enough to curl around his shoulders, her long tail hanging almost to his waist, and her nose bumping against his ear. Absently, he reached up to scratch underneath her chin._

_Kilgharrah tilted his head, then leaned down close enough that Merlin could feel the heat and smell the smoke of his breath when he spoke. "Young warlock, knowing how you feel about these things, I think you are supposed to teach her not to eat humans."_

 

When he opens his eyes, Arthur is still watching him expectantly, draining away some of the enjoyment of the memory. Merlin shifts, running his hand down Aithusa’s foreleg apologetically when she grumbles in protest at the movement. 

"You must know a lot about dragons," Arthur says eventually. "I didn’t know that."

"There’s a lot you don’t know." It’s hard to keep his voice even when his heart is thumping so hard in his chest. Behind him, Aithusa grumbles again, obviously picking up on his discomfort, but he can’t reach out to soothe her this time. He needs all his concentration for this.

Swallowing hard, he looks at the fire, then back at Arthur. Arthur, whose face is open and interested, and who will just accept whatever Merlin tells him, without question and without fuss. It’s so unreal that Merlin’s head swims for a moment before he gets himself under control. 

He takes a deep breath. "I couldn’t tell you before," he says, then has to stop to clear his throat because he seems to have become hoarse between one breath and the next. "Do you remember Balinor? The dragonlord." 

"Yes. He died." It’s so strange, having this Arthur who is not Arthur, who remembers things that happened to them but who has none of Arthur’s usual reactions. The sense of dislocation is so strong that it takes all Merlin’s strength to get the next words out.

"He was my father."

"Oh." 

The reaction is so much _not_ a reaction that Merlin half-sobs with relief, turning back to the fire and not at all surprised to find that Aithusa has curled her head around, trying to get closer to him somehow to soothe his distress. He reaches out for her blindly, feeling the rough texture of her scales under his hand, and the warm puff of her breath as she shifts closer. 

"You must have been very sad."

It’s strange, but it’s the sympathy that breaks the dam, more than mocking or anger could have done. Merlin swipes angrily at his eyes, then turns to Arthur.

"And I couldn’t tell you," he said, knowing that it isn’t Arthur's fault, but needing to drive away some of this grief before it overwhelms him. "I had to pretend that I was only worried about Camelot, and that it was all about the city and the dragon, and that it didn't matter to me that my father was dead." He feels better for letting it to the surface, for all that Arthur is looking at him with something close to real fear now, Aithusa's tail swishing behind him in the dim light from the fire. "And there was no one to ask why the dragon was so angry, no one to question why Uther had killed all the dragonlords. He killed them all, Arthur. I'm the last." He sinks back, the anger draining out of him again as his father's words echo in his head.

_He sent knights to kill me. I was forced to come here, to this! So, I understand how Kilgharrah feels. He's lost every one of his kind, every one of his kin. You want to know how that feels?_

When he looks up, the fear is gone from Arthur's face, replaced again with that innocent curiosity. Then he frowns, obviously thinking hard, and says, without heat or even any particular interest. "I'm very sorry about your father." 

Merlin has the feeling that the words are what Arthur knows he is supposed to say, the way he said please and thank you over dinner, but it doesn't matter. He nods, too choked to speak for a moment.

"Thank you."

This is such a bad idea. If Arthur doesn't remember tonight, the Merlin is going to have to pretend it didn't happen somehow. And if he does remember, that's going to bring a world of trouble all its own.

Merlin rubs at his face, forcing himself to smile, the way he always does. The secret is out now, if Arthur remembers, and if he doesn't, then it will just be one more thing not to let show. He can do that.

He turns to Arthur. "Would you like to see?"

"See what?"

Merlin stretches out a hand towards the fire and whispers drako. It takes a second, because he can't make up his mind what sort of dragon he wants to conjure, but then the sparks form themselves into the outline that he recognises as Kilgharrah, swooping and spiralling above the flickering flames. Beside him, Arthur makes a noise that can only be delight, and leans forward so far that Merlin has to put a hand on his arm to stop him falling into the fire.

"Can I touch it?"

"No, you can't." It's a bit of a struggle for Merlin to keep the laughter out of his voice. "It's made of fire."

Arthur's face falls a little. "Oh. Right." But he leans closer in again and Merlin brings the fire-dragon to the edge of the circle of flames so that its snout is almost at Arthur's nose. Despite the warning, he brings his hand up again, but Merlin makes the dragon whirl away before he can singe his fingers.

By way of consolation, he brings another dragon out of the fire, letting it swirl and dance around the first, fighting a quick mock-battle. Then he lets the spell go, both dragons disappearing in a shower of sparks.

He smiles at Arthur's disappointed expression, though his chest is tight with fear and regret. "Arthur," he says carefully, waiting until Arthur can tear his attention away from the fire and look at him. "Arthur, do you understand what this means?"

"Of course." There's a moment's pause, and Arthur narrows his eyes a little in what might be thought. Then he shakes his head. "No, not really."

It's impossible not to laugh at that, because Arthur never admits that he doesn't know anything. But even to his own ears, Merlin's laugh is too short and choked, and he knows if he lets himself start now, he might not be able to stop.

"Arthur, it means I have magic."

There's a long silence, and Merlin watches Arthur carefully, trying to tell if his words have had any impact at all. Over the crackling of the fire and the gentle rasp of Aithusa's breathing, Merlin can hear the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears. He has to keep telling himself that it won't mean anything, no matter what Arthur says, because this isn't really him, but still, he needs an answer.

Eventually, Arthur looks up, glancing from Merlin to the fire and back again.

"Right," he says. "Does that mean you can make other animals as well?"

It might be relief, this laughter bubbling up inside him, that he has to swallow down or end up breathless. He knows too that there’s an edge of frustration to it as well, and he pushes that away too. It’s not Arthur’s fault that the one thing Merlin has wanted to say all these years has gone straight over his head. Merlin has no one to blame for that but himself, as usual, so he takes another deep breath and settles down next to where Arthur is sprawled on his stomach in front of the fire, chin resting on his folded arms. Maybe it won’t hurt to pretend for just a little while longer that everything is going to be alright.

"What do you want to see?" he asks, and makes the fire into horses and dogs and hawks that dance and turn around each other, chasing around the flames, dying and reforming until Arthur falls asleep.


	2. Knowing

  
_In order that all men may be taught to speak truth, it is necessary that all likewise should learn to hear it._  
Samuel Johnson

When Merlin wakes, he is cold. The fire went out at some point, and he must have rolled away from Aithusa in his sleep. But it is the chill to his left that brings him into full awareness, because Arthur was there, shoulder pressed against his, and now he is gone.  
Merlin blinks, trying to make his eyes focus as he looks around and pushing back the panic. Arthur probably just needed a drink or some food or something else that Merlin hasn't thought of. Then he puts a hand on the ground to get to his feet and it sinks into the leaf litter. He freezes because he knows, is absolutely sure, that he put the sword beside him when he went to sleep last night.

"Merlin."

He turns his head at the whisper of his name, finally finding Arthur on the other side of the grey ashes that had been their fire. He's crouched, obviously ready for action, and Merlin sees a glint of metal that can only be the sword. Most worryingly, his eyes are clear and sharp, focusing with an intelligence that Merlin had longed for yesterday and now just makes his heart sink.

"Merlin, I want you to get up very slowly and come behind me." Arthur's voice is low, the sort he uses when they're out hunting or about to spring an ambush.

"Arthur?" He must sound stupid, but right at this moment he's too confused and sleep-fuddled to think properly. If Arthur remembers what they said last night, he wouldn't be trying to protect him. And if he doesn't, then why does he look as though he's seen a-

Oh. 

Obeying the first part of Arthur's order is easy, mostly because Merlin's legs are shaking too much for him to move quickly. Behind him, he hears Aithusa stir, the whisk of her tail through leaves and the slight groan of what is probably a yawn. Keeping his eyes on Arthur, Merlin reaches out to her, tries to tell her to stay down, stay quiet while he tries to find a way out of this. The contact seems to have the opposite effect, the rustling getting louder and he knows that she's getting to her feet, can feel her curiosity that any moment could blossom into alarm. All Merlin needs to do is keep both her and Arthur from doing anything stupid.

Of course, when it comes to Arthur, that's always been easier said than done, and Merlin is glad he didn't turn his back, because he catches the flicker of intention that comes just before Arthur starts to move.

"No! Arthur!" He's only just quick enough and there's no time to do anything but throw himself in Arthur's way, bearing them both to the ground. It probably would have been worse if Arthur had been in armour, but even without it, he's pretty solid, rolling them so that he can get back on his feet, elbowing Merlin in the stomach along the way. Winded, Merlin can't get up from his sprawl, so he pushes hard at Aithusa with his mind instead, urging her away, terrified for a brief moment that she won't understand.  
Then she tips her head back, wailing loudly enough that Arthur ducks, startled out of whatever he’d been planning to do next and putting his free hand to his head. Before he can gather himself, she is gone, rising straight upwards and beating the air frantically, her distress resonating down to Merlin like an echo in his soul. It hurts, but he has spent so long learning to understand her, to create this bond between them, that he cannot bring himself to pull away. Instead, he lies on his back, his stomach hurting and breath coming in long wheezes, and wonders what on earth he is supposed to do next.

 

_"Words are not enough, young warlock. She does not understand them yet. It is your souls that are kin, and it is through them that you must speak."_

_Learning spells had taken Merlin into a new language, the Druids had shown him how to speak between minds, and the words of dragon-tongue came from a place so deep that even Merlin didn't fully understand them. Each one came with a new way of thinking, a new understanding of the world. If he went on like this, he didn't know if there'd be any room left for him._

_He turned his attention back to Aithusa, trying to feel as much as see her. It was encouraging when she just stared back at him, tilting her head from one side to the other, and he found himself copying her without really thinking, until his neck started to hurt. Either she was trying to fit her soul to his as well, or she was hungry._

_Behind him, Kilgharrah let out a familiar huff of laughter. "You are both such children, Merlin," he said, not without affection, but still infuriating. "Maybe you will understand each other better because of it."_

 

Merlin lies still for a long moment, keeping his eyes on the sky and trying to force his mind to stop racing. When that doesn’t work, he turns his head enough to see Arthur, leaning on his sword a few paces away. As if sensing Merlin’s gaze, he straightens a little, lifts his sword and turns away, taking a few steps towards the main camp. Then, before Merlin can do more than sit up, he’s turning back, so fast it makes Merlin fall back on his elbows, and he’s standing over Merlin, his face shadowed and unreadable.

"In case you hadn’t noticed, Merlin, that was a dragon, and the last time we met a dragon, it tried to kill us. And not just us, the whole of Camelot. Now I understand that you’re a sentimental idiot, but could you please explain to me why you’re enough of a sentimental idiot to stop me killing that monster?" He puts a foot on Merlin’s shoulder when he tries to rise, not pressing enough to hurt, just keeping him there. From Arthur, it’s not as aggressive as it might be, no more than he’d do with a knight on the training ground when he’s trying to get his point across. "And while you’re about it, you can explain why we’re in the middle of nowhere, apparently on the edge of a bandit camp and I’m dressed like the village idiot, when clearly that should be your role?"   
There’s no good way out of this, and Merlin’s heart is beating so hard he’s surprised Arthur can’t hear it from where he’s standing. Everything will have to come out now, but, coward that he is, he decides to start with the easier part, where the words will tumble out without his having to think about them.

"Camelot has fallen. You were hurt and I had to get you away. We changed your clothes so you’d be harder to find. And they’re not bandits." He remembers the chest on the back of the wagon, the way that Tristan had made sure that neither he nor Arthur got too close to anything, "I think they might be smugglers. I didn’t tell them who you are."

"Smugglers!"

Instinctively, Merlin tries to rise, but Arthur’s foot is still on his shoulder and he falls back, glaring upwards. "You can’t say anything! You’re in disguise. If they knew who you were-"

"Yes, fine, I get it. That’s not actually a totally stupid idea." There’s grudging acceptance in Arthur’s voice, which is probably as much as Merlin could hope for. "And the dragon?"

He can’t do it like this, not lying at Arthur’s feet unable to get up, as though they’re having one of their pointless lessons in fighting again, where he’s not allowed to stand until he admits defeat. This isn’t a game, and while he’s still not sure he can do this at all, he’s damn sure he can’t do it lying on his back in the dirt. He pushes Arthur off him, scrabbling back and getting to his feet as fast as he can. From the look on his face, Arthur is still angry but he’s also waiting to hear what Merlin has to say for himself, no doubt ready to tell him he’s an idiot again.

His expression softens a little when Merlin is actually upright and facing him. "Look, Merlin, I know you have a soft spot a mile wide-"

"Arthur, please." He won’t be able to do this if Arthur keeps talking, and he wonders if he could still find a way out, let Arthur draw his own conclusions about what was going on, because he’s damned if he can think of a reason for Aithusa to be there, peacefully sleeping alongside them, apart from the truth.

He’s saved from having to think of anything by shouts from the main camp. They’re not the familiar calls of people packing up to move. Merlin’s heard enough war cries to recognise them when he hears them. 

Arthur grimaces at him in a way that says _this conversation is not over_ , then turns to face the direction of the shouts and running footsteps. He moves back a little when Tristan bursts through the screen of trees, closely followed by Isolde. Both have their swords drawn, and Tristan almost trips in surprise when he sees Arthur.

"What the hell?" he begins, but Isolde shoulders him, hard, and looks at Merlin.

"They came out of nowhere, but they’re looking for something." They make such a contrast, Tristan’s fierce anger and Isolde’s determined calm. She looks more ready to listen, at least at first, although Merlin doesn’t doubt that she knows how to use the sword in her hand if she doesn’t like the answer.

Behind her, Merlin can hear the shouts of men, the screams that he knows mean people are dying out there. And his stomach rolls because he knows what she’s about to ask him.

Arthur gets there first. "Maybe they’re after your cargo. Your _smuggled_ cargo," he spits out, turning his sword towards Tristan.

For a moment, Merlin thinks they’re going to forget about the fight raging just feet away and start attacking each other. Then a man in black leather appears from behind a tree and makes straight for Arthur, sword swinging. It’s not much of a fight, not really, not when Arthur is on his feet, sword at the ready. He catches the first blow easily, pushing the man back hard enough to make him stumble and following it with a stab at his belly. It’s half-deflected by the leather, but the man falls anyway, and a swift kick to the head makes sure he stays down.

Tristan raises an eyebrow. "Or maybe they’re after you," he says, turning a little so that he can keep an eye on the approaches. "Why would they do that? Who are you?"

They’re saved from answering by more attackers, hard-faced men in black armed with clubs and gleaming daggers as well as their swords. Arthur dispatches his opponent quickly and turns to check on the others. Even Merlin can tell that both Tristan and Isolde are good, although their fighting style is different to Arthur’s, more flowing and elegant where Arthur is ruthlessly efficient. When more bodies are lying at their feet, Arthur spares the barest glance for Merlin, then says, "My name is Arthur Pendragon."  
Merlin wasn’t ready for the angry look Tristan turns on him, the betrayal clear in his expression. "King of Camelot?" he says, obviously only half believing.

"Not any more, apparently." Arthur spares a glance for the main camp. "Shouldn’t we be doing something for your people?"

"Half of them are already dead." Tristan’s voice is tight, keeping the anger just below the surface, but Merlin can see the muscles in his jaw clenching. "And the rest will scatter as quickly as they can. They’ll know where to meet us if they survive."

There’s too much rustling in the trees around them, and Merlin knows it won’t be long before they’re overrun. Tristan and Arthur seem to be preoccupied with their staring match, but Isolde catches his eye and nods her understanding, even if she doesn't look happy about it.

"We should go," she says, putting a hand on Tristan’s arm. "While we can."

It’s hard, but Merlin tries not to get too hopeful when Arthur looks to him, waiting for his nod before lowering his sword a little. Since he doesn’t react beyond that, Merlin steps around the remains of the fire, not sure what he’s going to say, but knowing they can’t just stand here. Once again, Arthur saves him from having to decide, bringing his sword up and around in a sweeping arc that has Merlin dropping instinctively, his shoulder hitting the ground hard even as he hears the blade connect with flesh behind him. 

He winces, then rolls onto his back as the Southron who’d crept out of the tree cover crashes to the ground.

"Don’t just lie around, Merlin," Arthur says, offering his hand and yanking him to his feet. "Time to go."

~

They only encounter a few more Southrons as they flee, and none of them live to take the news back to the rest. They are all bruised, although most of Merlin’s come from where Arthur keeps shoving him out of the way, apparently to protect him. There’s a cut high on Isolde’s arm, and long shallow scratch down Tristan’s right cheek, but they’re fine apart from that. Stopping only to refill their water skins, they press on, wanting to put as much distance between them and the ruined camp as they can. It’s a miserable trudge, the sky keeping up its constant drizzle so that water seeps into their clothes and drips down the back of Merlin’s neck. The only thing worse than the rain is the silence that hangs between them, heavier and more ominous than any thunderstorm.

When Tristan eventually calls a halt, Merlin can’t help but sink gratefully to the ground, the rush from their escape wearing off and leaving him feeling tired and empty. Arthur is still on his feet, of course, apparently satisfying himself that they’re not being followed, then going to the edge of the small ridge and looking down into the valley below.

"This will do for tonight," he says, then glances at Merlin. "I’m assuming you actually have somewhere in mind for us to go?"

"Ealdor." When Arthur raises an eyebrow, Merlin shrugs. "It’s over the border and deep in the valley. There are caves in the hills beyond the village that you could hide an army in."

"In case you hadn’t noticed, Merlin, we don’t have an army right at this moment." It’s hard to tell from the tone whether Arthur is genuinely annoyed or just being sarcastic automatically. 

"From what I’ve seen, you don’t have much of anything." Tristan is sprawled at the foot of a tree, and although his sword is on the ground beside him, his hand still rests on the hilt. "All you’ve got is a sword and him. You haven’t even got a dragon any more."  
Merlin freezes, then instantly knows it was the wrong thing to do, because Arthur’s eyes snap to him, all the questions from earlier coming back in a rush. Maybe if Merlin had managed not to react, Arthur would have let it go, would have dismissed it as less important than their escape, but not now. Knowing it’s too late, Merlin stays where he is, dropping his head and trying to control the rushing panic rising up in him.

Apparently Arthur isn't the only one who picks up on it, and Merlin has a sudden surge of gratitude for Isolde, who gets to her feet with an effort and goes to stand in front of Tristan, blocking his view. "Help me find some wood for a fire?" she says pointedly, and whatever she manages to say silently, it makes Tristan scowl, then turn his head away from Arthur and Merlin. 

Once the sound of their rustling footsteps fades away, Merlin hears Arthur take a deep breath, then hears the thud of a something hitting the ground. He raises his eyes enough to see that Arthur has driven his sword upright into the dirt and is coming over to stand in front of Merlin. 

Merlin lowers his eyes again, staying on his knees. He’s not entirely sure they would hold him if he tried to stand up.

"So." Arthur’s voice is carefully neutral, and Merlin knows that tone. It’s Arthur’s court voice, his non-committal one, where he doesn’t know the answer and isn’t sure how to get it, but knows there’s something he needs to be told. "Apparently we need to have a conversation about a dragon."

For a moment, all Merlin can do is nod, feeling so many years of waiting piling into him all at once and knowing that he still isn’t ready, that he could never be ready for this conversation. When he lifts his eyes a little, it’s to find Arthur crouched in front of him, face too close and expression guarded. It’s so similar to all those moments yesterday when Merlin found himself looking into Arthur’s easy, happy face that it wrenches at him, making him gulp down something that might have been a sob and turn away. 

"Merlin?" There’s genuine concern in Arthur’s voice now, and Merlin forces himself under control. He can do this. He’s waited for this moment for so long. He just didn’t know it would be so hard when it got here.

Swallowing again, he finds his voice and says, "We rescued the dragon. Yesterday. From Tristan and Isolde. They were going to capture her, sell her, something, I don’t know. But we stopped them."

"I see. Why did we do that?" He’s being patient, and somehow, it’s worse than his anger. Merlin knows what to do when Arthur is angry, and he can’t tell if this eerie calm is genuine, or if it’s just the prelude to something much worse. He obviously struggles with his answer for too long, because Arthur reaches out and puts a hand on his face. It’s not gentle, the way he grips Merlin’s jaw and forces him to look around and up. "Why did we stop them, Merlin?" 

He hadn’t known how to say it before, what words to use, for all that he’s rehearsed telling Arthur for months. Years. Then he realises he does know what to say, because he’s already said it, and the memory frees his tongue.

"Balinor was my father."

Arthur releases him so quickly that Merlin half-falls, catching himself before he’s sent face down into the ground. He can’t lift his head, still feeling the places on his face where Arthur held him, and he’s sure that if he tries to look at Arthur now, the urge to run will overtake him before he can stop it, so he just listens to Arthur's footsteps, circling the clearing, going back and forth, staying a good distance away from Merlin.

His fingers are curling into the ground, dirt pressing under his fingernails, cold and wet and just real enough to keep him on the right side of panic. He remembers the chill in the ground last night, how his elbows had grown damp through his jacket as he and Arthur watched the fire-circus he had conjured. The memory brings as much sorrow as it does hope, and he has to pull himself back into the present, focusing again on the cool earth under his fingers.  
He's just decided that he does have the courage to look up after all when he hears the pacing stop, and he braces himself automatically.

"Oh get up, you look ridiculous. I can't talk to you like that." 

The words are such a surprise that Merlin's body obeys before his brain has really caught up, and he finds himself face to face with Arthur. He wants to flinch away again, but he makes himself stay where he is, even if he can't quite meet Arthur's eye. 

"Were you ever going to tell me?" 

Merlin blinks, because that's not what he expected Arthur to say. It jolts some of the paralysing fear out of him, and he looks up properly for the first time. "One day," he says, and although his voice rasps in his throat, it's steady enough for now.

"I see." Arthur takes half a step backwards, enough to look Merlin up and down. "Balinor was your father," he says, as if testing the words, seeing what will happen when he says them.

"Yes."

"And now that he's dead, that makes you the last dragonlord."

"Yes."

"Which I suppose explains the dragon this morning."

"Yes."

More visibly annoyed now, Arthur runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head a little. "You know, Merlin, this will go a lot quicker if you actually talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" It's a genuine question because this isn't going anything like Merlin had expected it to. In his imagined versions, there's usually more shouting, more accusations and definitely more swords. He's not sorry that Arthur has left his a few feet away, but it's set Merlin adrift, not knowing what he's supposed to do next.

It's clear that Arthur doesn't know either, by the way he drops his hand, still looking more confused than anything else. "If you have magic, and if you've had to put up with being my servant all these years, either you're playing a very long game indeed, or you're even stupider than I thought."

"I'm not playing any game," Merlin says, then frowns. "And I'm not stupid."

"But you do have magic."

It's the question Merlin has waited all these years for, and now it's come, it's not actually a question. Arthur already knows, he's just making a statement of fact, but Merlin knows he still needs to answer.

"I was born with it," he says simply, hoping it's what Arthur needs to hear.

"All these years," Arthur says, and it sounds like he is speaking as much to himself as to Merlin. "All these years, and all you've done is follow me around, picking up my clothes, polishing my boots, getting in the way."

"Saving your life." Merlin shrugs a little at Arthur's raised eyebrow. "It's my destiny, Arthur. It's why I'm here." The fear is washing away now, drowned in relief, and he feels almost giddy with it.

There's real disbelief in Arthur's face now. "Why, Merlin? You know how I feel about magic, you know what sorcerers have done to Camelot."

"And I know what Camelot has done to them." He's feeling braver with every passing moment, and lifts his chin a little, meeting Arthur's eyes. "And I'm still here."

"Why?" The word is little more than a whisper. "Why would you stay?"

Merlin doesn't really know what he's doing, just following the instinct deep in him, knowing it's right because it feels the same as his magic, the same as when he speaks in dragon-tongue and knows, absolutely, that this is what he's meant to do.  
Slowly, he bends one knee, lowering himself back to the ground, but not taking his gaze from Arthur's. He only breaks the contact once he's kneeling and even then, it's not out of fear. He's not afraid of Arthur now.

"Because you're my king," he says, and his head is so light with the _rightness_ of this that he thinks the words might be speaking themselves. "Because I know that one day you will be the greatest king Albion has ever known. And because it is my destiny to serve you." 

Arthur doesn't speak for a long time, and Merlin just waits, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. It's near to dusk now and there's a light breeze blowing across the ridge, ruffling Merlin's hair and stirring the leaves in the trees. Above the rustling, he can hear birds calling in the distance and a steady of beat of wings that signals the flocks returning to roost for the night. His knee is cold, the damp spreading up from the ground and seeping into the cloth of his trousers, but still he kneels. He’ll kneel all night if he has to, if that’s what it will take for Arthur to understand.

He’s not given the chance to find out, because there are the sounds of voices a little way off, and suddenly Arthur’s hand is on his shoulder, yanking him to his feet. 

"This isn’t finished," he says, close enough that Merlin can feel his breath on his cheek. "Do they know?" When Merlin nods, Arthur releases him with a huff of frustration. "Everyone but me, is it?"

But there’s no time to reply to that, because Tristan and Isolde are back, carrying armfuls of firewood and exchanging what Merlin thinks are probably significant looks. If they are, he can’t interpret them. Right now, he can’t even interpret what Arthur’s thinking. The fact that he didn’t try to behead Merlin right there and then is probably a good thing. The fact that he’s retreated to the edge of the ridge again and is keeping his back turned to everyone is probably not.

It’s only when Tristan dumps a pile of wood in front of him that Merlin realises he was lost in his thoughts. He looks down at the branches, then up at Tristan, who is giving him an expectant look. 

"It’ll be dark soon," he says. "And cold."

Right. Fire.

He crouches to arrange the branches, although tonight there will be no pot of warming soup, no comfortable bumping of shoulders and sharing warmth. At least there won’t be if the set of Arthur’s shoulders and the stiffness of his back is anything to go by. Merlin’s knee is still wet from being sunk into the forest floor, and the damp cloth pulls at his skin as he breaks one of the longer branches in half. He’s aware of Isolde watching him from a little way away, her gaze steady and unembarrassed when he turns to her.

She raises an eyebrow, question and something that might be concern in her eyes. He shrugs, then frowns when she moves and winces.

"How’s the arm?" he asks, his voice too loud in the quiet.

"Sore," she says ruefully. "But I’ve had worse."

"Do you want me to have a look at it?" When she looks skeptical, he adds, "I’m apprenticed to a physician."

"He knows what he’s doing. You should let him look." 

Merlin’s hands freeze around the wood he’s holding, and for a moment, he can’t move, Arthur’s voice - his recommendation - so unexpected that it takes Merlin a moment to realise it was real. He looks around, but Arthur still has his back to him. It might just be Merlin’s imagination, but his shoulders look to have loosened a little, as though he might have taken the first half step back from whatever anger had driven him away.

The cut isn’t so bad, and although it will be hard to keep it completely clean, the bleeding stopped some time ago. Tristan tears a strip from the bottom of his shirt for a bandage, keeping a hand on Isolde’s shoulder as Merlin carefully ties it around her arm. When he’s done, Tristan gives him a grateful smile.

"Thank you," he says, voice low and sincere.

Merlin returns the smile weakly, then shuffles back to the pile of wood. They have nothing to hunt food with and it’s too late in the year for anything much to be growing, so they’ll have to make do with the berries and a few roots that Isolde managed to forage up. While they won’t starve yet, they will go hungry tonight, and there’s no reason they should be cold as well.

In Merlin’s absence, Arthur has taken over his work on the fire, but he frowns at Merlin when he returns. "This wood’s too wet," he says, waving a piece of it under Merlin’s nose. "And we’ve no dry kindling."

"We don’t need it." The words are out of Merlin’s mouth before he can think, before he remembers that there is still too much unsaid between them, and that knowing is not the same as understanding, accepting. Not for Arthur. The deepening frown he gets in reply tells him that all too clearly, and with a sickening wrench, he wonders if Arthur is actually going to forbid him to light the fire.

Then Arthur’s face clears into something Merlin can’t read in the growing dark. "Fine," he says, handing over the stick. "Show me."

He might not be able to read Arthur’s expression, but Merlin knows a challenge when he hears one. Carefully, he puts the stick in with the others, then holds his hand over the pile. _"Forbærne."_

To his credit, Arthur doesn’t jump back, just stares into the flames for a while, then away into the distance. "Do you need to stay awake for that to go on burning?" he asks, voice giving nothing away.

"No," Merlin says slowly, still not entirely sure if this is a test and he’s already failed.

"Good." Arthur shifts a little, clearly making room for Tristan and Isolde to come closer. "Then you can take the middle watch. I’ll wake you in a few hours." He moves even further away, putting his back to the fire and pulling his sword closer to his side.

Despite it all, the way Arthur has turned away, the unsettling lack of expression in his voice, and the way Isolde is giving him a sympathetic look, Merlin can’t keep the smile from his face as he settles down on his side, closing his eyes. Arthur knows he hates the middle watch, hates having to wake in the middle of the night and try not to doze off again while listening to everyone snore around him. That’s why, when they go on hunting trips, Arthur always makes Merlin do it, just to hear him complain, loudly and at length. 

Turning onto his back, not caring about the cold dampness of the ground or the clouded, starless sky above, Merlin lets his smile widen to a grin, then lets his eyes close. Arthur is still here, and will still be here tomorrow. Maybe he has a chance at making this right after all.

 

_"Aithusa!" His shouts echoed from the rockface, a confusing jumble of sound, and he forced himself to stop and listen instead. Above him, he could hear the steady beat of Kilgharrah’s wings as he circled the area. Apart from that, he couldn’t hear anything but the rush of water on stones from the shallow stream beside him, and the wind moving through the trees._

_Everything in him wanted to call out again, to do anything other than just stand here, feeling helpless. But shouting wasn’t working, he had to try something else._

_Closing his eyes, Merlin reached into himself, to the shining light that was his awareness of the dragons, the part of them that was always with him. Then he stretched outwards, trying to connect to Aithusa. He spread the net wide, blanketing the forest around him, the rocky outcrop and the running water._

_Something made him turn back to the rocks, and he opened his eyes, searching for what his instincts were trying to tell him. It took him another breathless moment, but then he saw it, the flash of white against grey stone. Without even thinking about it, he threw his head back and called Kilgharrah’s name, not needing to check whether or not he had been heard before he started to run._

_The rocks under his feet were slippery, and he had to slow to a scramble, using his hands to keep his balance. Aithusa had managed to wedge herself between the rockface and a large boulder, only a few feet above the ground, but so completely stuck that it was only the thrashing of her long tail that had let Merlin spot her._

_"Easy," he said, reaching out with hand and mind together, trying to soothe her. "Easy." Behind him, there was the rush of air that he knew meant Kilgharrah had come to the ground, and he looked round at the great dragon. "She isn’t hurt," he said, feeling the relief wash over him. "She’s just stuck."_

_"Can you free her?"_

_It was strange, being the calm one while Kilgharrah sounded nervous, his ears flicking back and forth, and his tail sweeping the ground in agitation._

_"I think so." Merlin put a hand on the boulder, considering. Then, putting some power into the word, he said,_ "Brec," _and the stone crumbled into dust._

_He was almost knocked from the narrow ledge by Aithusa, although whether it was a deliberate embrace or just panicked flailing, Merlin didn’t know. Either way, he hung onto her, letting her settle against him, and feeling his own fear subside at last._

~

"Who's Aithusa?" Arthur asks, an hour into their trudge to Ealdor the next morning. The path is downhill now, letting Merlin use the excuse of watching where he's putting his feet to catch his breath. His first instinct, as always, is to lie, but then he catches how Arthur is looking at him, as challenging and expectant as when he told Merlin to light the fire last night. "You talk in your sleep," Arthur adds.

For the few hours of sleep he'd managed, Merlin dreamed constantly of the dragons, which isn’t surprising, but it’s making him miss Aithusa almost like a physical ache. "She's the white dragon," he says, keeping his eyes on the overgrown path. "The one from yesterday."

"I see." There's a brief silence, and Merlin can almost hear Arthur thinking. "I don't know that much about these things, but she seemed a little small for a dragon, which probably means she’s still young, maybe just a few months. I'm assuming that means you stole the dragon's egg?"

"I rescued it." It's probably not sensible to argue with Arthur about these things, not when there is so much between them at the moment, but Merlin can't help himself. "It didn't belong to anyone." 

"Except, of course, a dragonlord."

It's hard not to flinch at hearing the word in Arthur's mouth. Merlin just shakes his head for a moment, because it doesn't work like that, and if Arthur is asking, then maybe he actually wants to understand.

"I don't own them," he says, pushing irritably at an overhanging branch. "They have to listen to me if I tell them what to do, but it's not like a horse or a dog. They don't need me to look after them, not really."

"Then what's the point of you?"

A little way ahead of them, Merlin sees Tristan turn a little, glaring over his shoulder. Carefully, Merlin says, "It's not about being their master, Arthur. I'm not their king." He's chosen the word deliberately, and doesn't look at Arthur as he says it. "It's more like..." He searches for the word, trying to find one that Arthur will understand. "Family."

"That's just great. So next time Camelot is burning with dragon fire, we can just bring you out and the two of you can have a nice brotherly chat. Because that worked so well last time."

There's something tight in Merlin's chest, and he only realises he's stopped walking when Arthur turns and looks back at him.

"The dragonlord power is inherited," Merlin says, making himself meet Arthur's eyes. "You can only receive it once your father is dead."

The frown that has been fixed on Arthur's face all morning clears a little, his mouth opening, then shutting again quickly as he looks away. Whatever he's going to say is cut off by a shout from up ahead and Merlin jerks into motion, stepping around Arthur and hurrying on. He has to keep telling himself that this was never going to be easy, that there was always going to be more to explain than Arthur could really understand, but that's not much comfort here and now.

When he steps out of the woods, he sees Tristan and Isolde at the banks of a wide, shallow river, refilling the two water bottles they'd managed to bring with them. Tristan looks up when Merlin comes over, then scowls over his shoulder.

"Are we going up or down river?" he asks, shifting his attention back to Merlin.

Before Merlin can answer, Arthur points with his sword. "Down," he says. "It’s about a two hour walk."

"I'm sorry," Tristan says, still not looking away from Merlin, "I was asking the man who actually knows what he's doing. You might have the biggest," his mouth twists into a sneer, "sword, but out here that's about all you've got. So he's the one I'm going to listen to."

Merlin's cheeks are burning, and he can't look at Arthur properly, not like this. So he shoulders past Tristan, striding out alongside the river. It's higher than usual, swollen with all the recent rain, and the bank is not much more than cloying mud. He changes course uphill a little, trying to get to firmer ground to get a faster pace, and not at all because he's aware Arthur is still only wearing his stolen sandals and his feet will freeze on the claggy ground. 

He can't get lost here, just a few hours from home, coming out from the wooded cover of the slopes and emerging into the narrow strip of land that the people of Ealdor subsist on. It's not much, and looks less at this time of year, before anything really starts to grow, but Merlin can feel the strength in the earth, the first stirrings of life under the surface. If the rains let up soon, it'll be a good year for the crops.

It helps, feeling the easy familiarity of the landscape, the way the wind always sweeps in from the west, bringing the warmth and the rain both. It's something to think about that isn't the leaden feeling in his stomach, the prickling at the back of his neck that comes from having too many eyes on him and the hot, uncomfortable feeling that overwhelms him every time he tries to look at Arthur. 

In an attempt to distract himself, he looks up at the sky, trying to gauge the time and wondering if his mother will have any warm leftovers from breakfast still. Almost certainly not, but he’ll settle for cold leftovers - cold anything, really - at this point, he’s so hungry. They’re still on slightly higher ground and should be able to see the smoke from the houses in the village soon. He’s so busy thinking about anything else, that when Arthur speaks, he jumps hard enough to almost trip over.

"Looks like we have company." His eyes are on the sky as well, staring along the valley and upwards, and Merlin has to squint a little to see what he’s looking at. 

Circling above the end of the valley, roughly where Ealdor lies, is a distinctive shape. It’s deceptive, being this far away, because it almost looks like a large, dark bird, but Merlin knows as they come closer, it will resolve itself into a small, white dragon.   
He glances at Arthur, who has shaded his eyes and is still staring at the soaring outline. 

"Do you want me to send her away?" Merlin asks. "She probably didn’t know where else to go."

"Won’t she scare the villagers?" It’s actually not a bad point, and Merlin has half raised his head to call to Aithusa when Arthur puts a hand on his arm. "You could call her here," he says. From the clench of his jaw, he doesn’t look at all sure about what he’s saying, and it doesn’t give Merlin the hope he was looking for.

"What are you going to do?" he asks, not sure if he can obey if Arthur orders him to summon Aithusa down without answering his question.

Arthur looks away, his hand still curled around Merlin’s arm, grip tight. "You said you can control her. Order her not to harm us?"

Merlin will not let himself hope. He will not. "She wouldn’t hurt you, Arthur. She likes you."

It was the wrong thing to say, too much a reminder of yesterday morning, and definitely too much too soon. The grip on Merlin’s arm closes to almost bruisingly tight, then is gone just as suddenly, and Arthur shakes his head. "Send her away," he says, although it sounds like he might choke on the words. Something must show on Merlin’s face, because he adds as he walks on, "Not yet, Merlin. I’m still reminding myself that I’ve decided not to execute you for being a damn sorcerer. Yet. One thing at a time."

Despite his disappointment, and despite his promise not to expect anything of Arthur, Merlin feels the next knot in his chest unravel. He still has no promises, and no guarantees, but right now, he’ll take what threads of hope he can get. Gesturing for the others to go on, he fixes his eyes on Aithusa in the distance, then closes them, reaching out towards her. The river they’re following passes Ealdor then comes out into a pool in the forest that starts again beyond the village. There’s enough room for her to land there, and enough cover for her to hide if anyone comes looking. He pushes the image towards her, showing her where it is, holding onto his awareness of her and hoping the message is getting through. 

For a moment, he’s pulled towards her, seeing the ground through her eyes, the houses of Ealdor looking so small and almost unreal, like a child’s toys spread out on the floor. They haven’t managed this very often, the close connection that lets them think and breathe as one, and her presence is a flame against his face for a moment before she turns away, wheeling and flapping her wings to move on and try to find the place he sent her. He lets her slip away gently, their minds sliding over each other as he draws back, alone inside his own head again.

When he opens his eyes, blinking a little as he tries to readjust to seeing the world from the ground up, Arthur is standing a little way off, half behind a tree as though he can’t decide whether he’s hiding or not. He doesn’t say anything as Merlin comes over to join him, and they start to walk on again in silence.

Merlin presses his lips together in an effort to stop himself from saying anything else stupid. It’s always talking that gets him into trouble, and just this once, he makes himself hold back.

It’s worth the effort, because they’ve only gone about a hundred paces when Arthur, carefully looking straight ahead, up at the trees or away to his left - anywhere but at Merlin - says, "I thought-" He breaks off, shaking his head and trying again. "I thought magic was normally more dramatic than that. Words, gestures." He waves his hand vaguely and Merlin can’t help but raise an eyebrow. "You know. More."

"Dragon magic is different." It’s so hard to explain, when all Arthur has seen is people with glowing eyes speaking words that could kill him. "It’s more about who you are than what you can do."

"Who _you_ are," Arthur says, then shakes his head. "So you just, what? Talk to them and they do what you say?"

"Pretty much."

There’s a long silence again, and Merlin wonders if that is going to be the end of it. Arthur said he needed time, but how is Merlin supposed to know how much? It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, all his plans and dreams going up in smoke with Morgana’s invasion, and he’s being forced to Arthur’s pace, whatever that turns out to be.

Eventually, Arthur takes a deep breath, the kind that means he’s steeling himself for something, and says, "What did you say to the great dragon?"

When Merlin had thought about telling Arthur about his magic, he thought he’d start with the Questing Beast, or maybe Aredian, something that was easy to explain, nice and clear cut. He really doesn't want to be talking about Kilgharrah.

"You wounded him," he says slowly. "That was real."

"But not mortally."

"No." The truth is so difficult, but there’s a harder one to come, and Merlin will need his strength for that. Better to concede this one quickly. "I told him to leave Camelot and never return, on pain of death."

"And would you have followed through? I mean, you have trouble skinning a squirrel on a hunting party. I’m finding it hard to imagine you killing a dragon." Arthur is trying to keep his voice light, and Merlin can hear what that is costing him.  
"I would do anything to protect you and the people of Camelot."

The answer seems to be taken for the truth that it is, because Arthur nods, obviously lost in thought again. In the silence, Merlin feels as though he can hear every footfall, every rustle of leaves and birds in the trees around them. It’s like walking along a cliff edge, never quite knowing when the ground under his feet is going to crumble.

Until it does.

"Do you know how the dragon got free?"

Arthur will know, from the way Merlin can’t answer right away to the way his breath catches when he tries to breathe more deeply. Arthur will know that Merlin knows, and once he knows that, he will not stop until he gets his answer. The only question is whether he will listen to the whole answer or not.

"When the knights of Idirsholas attacked, when Camelot was overcome by the sleeping sickness," he begins, only to be interrupted almost at once.

"Don’t tell me, you cured that as well." Sarcasm has always come easily between them, but there is nothing easy in Arthur’s tone now. 

Merlin swallows. "I had to strike a bargain. Camelot was helpless, it was only a matter of time before we succumbed to it. Your father would have been killed." That makes Arthur flinch, and Merlin presses on, "I needed to know how to stop it, so I made a deal: the answer for Kilgharrah’s freedom. I was desperate, Arthur, I didn’t know what else to do. And I didn’t know he would attack Camelot afterwards." 

It’s more words than he thought he would get through in one go, so he rushes through them, stopping when he realises Arthur is watching him out of the corner of his eye. 

"What was the cure?" 

The question was probably inevitable, but Merlin blanches all the same. To free the dragon, to bring death and destruction on Camelot by accident was one thing. What he did to Morgana? That’s not something he lets himself think about.

"He told me I needed to kill the source of the curse." It won’t make it any better, coming at the answer in such a roundabout way, but he can’t bring himself to say more.

Arthur says it for him. "Morgana." He snorts in something that might be disbelief and turns his face away. "You tried to kill Morgana. With what? You obviously didn’t do a very good job of it."

"Poison." Merlin has to keep his eyes on the ground now. His mind is so far away, full of the fear and the panic and the awfulness of that day that if he doesn’t look where he’s putting his feet, he’ll probably tumble down the slope into the stream. "When Morgause realised, I gave her its name in exchange for her lifting the curse."

"And saved Camelot." Arthur shakes his head. "And then doomed it again by freeing the dragon. And then saved it again by sending him away. Good grief, man." He stops, putting out a hand to stop Merlin as well, and just stares at him for a long moment. "Did it ever occur to you to run your idiotic ideas past someone before just plunging in? Long term planning is really not your strong point, is it?"

As before, Arthur always seems to know just what to say to make Merlin angry enough to speak. "Who was I supposed to ask, Arthur? Everyone was asleep or dead, and for all I knew, we were next."

"I was there too, Merlin, I do remember." The obvious answer is unspoken, but Merlin hears it anyway and shakes his head.

"What was I supposed to say, Arthur? By the way, the dragon your father imprisoned under the castle says he can tell us how to save everyone but only if we set him free, what do you think?" His voice is rising, and he makes a conscious effort to be quiet again, leaning in a little towards Arthur. "And if he’d told you that the answer was to kill Morgana? Could you have done it?"

He didn’t mean it to be a challenge, even if it came out that way. Arthur backs away a little, looking at Merlin as though he’s never seen him before.

"I don't know," he says. "She was your friend, Merlin."

"And she would have destroyed Camelot." It’s the truth, and while he’s always been relieved that he didn’t actually manage it, today does not seem like a good day to say that. "She would have killed you."

"She may succeed yet." 

"Not if I can help it." He means it, with every fibre of his being, although he doesn't think he could be so sure if he hadn't already heard Arthur say that he didn't plan to have him executed. If Arthur had decided the other way? He shakes off the thought, because he has enough crowding his head at the moment.

Arthur is still looking at him oddly, and it takes Merlin a moment to realise what it reminds him of. The second time they met, when Arthur had tried to take off his head with a mace, but had stopped short as though not sure whether to carry on and beat him to death or clap him on the back and buy him a drink.

"There's more, isn't there?" Arthur says, eyes still fixed on Merlin's face, as though he can't look away. "More that you've done for Camelot."

And as many mistakes as successes, but they don't have time right now. This time it's Merlin who reaches out, gripping Arthur's arms and willing him to understand. 

"Done for you, Arthur." He pulls a little, getting them walking again and letting his hands fall back to his sides. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, but right now, we have to keep moving."

They fall into step as easily as ever, matching each other stride for stride and soon Merlin can see Tristan and Isolde up ahead again. It was a foolish promise to make to Arthur, he knows. There is too much that could shatter this fragile truce between them. He has no way of knowing how long Arthur's patience will hold, and he feels a chill creeping up his spine at the thought. It has been hard enough to get this far, but to get this far and still fail?

He forces himself to shake off the thought, putting one foot in front of the other and treading the familiar path, letting it lead him towards home.


	3. Light

  
_Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,  
Adorns and cheers our way;  
And still, as darker grows the night,  
Emits a brighter ray._  
Oliver Goldsmith

His mother is so pleased to see them that Merlin has a horribly guilty moment, hugging her to him and trying not to apologise too much for everything he hasn’t done. She knew what it would mean when she sent him to Camelot, probably understood the implications better than he did, but standing here, her arms wrapped around him and his face pressed into her hair, he wishes it didn’t have to be like this.

After a long moment, she pulls away, holding him at arm’s length so she can look at him properly. 

"Welcome home, Merlin."

He smiles, running his hands up and down her arms, feeling the comfort in the gentle touch. He has his back to Arthur, although they're still within earshot, and he drops his voice as his eyes scan the village. "Where’s-"

It’s not much to go on, but his mother always understands what he means. "In the upper fields. Not back til dusk, I’d say."

Merlin nods. They have enough to deal with right now without putting Arthur even more on edge. He lets his mother lead the way, drawing the others into her wake as they head through the village. Some of the people they pass give Arthur a respectful nod, and Oslaf, whose house lies with Merlin's on the edge of the village, actually stops to grasp his hand.

"My Lord," he says, not appearing to notice how Arthur's smile is stiff, or how Tristan has that skeptical look on his face again. "It's an honour to see you again." 

"And you, Oslaf," Arthur says, and if the way he shakes the man's hand is a little jerky, or if he frees himself more quickly than he usually would, Oslaf doesn't seem to mind. 

"They certainly think a lot of you," Tristan says, "What did you do? Drop a bag of gold as you were riding past to hunt in their forest?"

"His Highness saved us from bandits, at the risk of his own life." Merlin's mother doesn't turn to Tristan as she speaks, as though he isn't worth her trouble, although she is gripping Merlin's arm tightly in her own. "We owe him everything."

"Hunith..." Arthur starts, stopping when Merlin turns to him with a wide grin that he can't hide.

"It's true, Arthur. They wouldn't still be here if it wasn't for you."

Tristan is obviously incredulous. "Why would you do that? This place isn't even in your kingdom."

"They needed help. I could give it." That's somewhere near the truth, and unusually for Arthur, there's nothing false about the modesty. From the way he's avoiding Merlin's eye, it's almost like he's embarrassed by the praise.

"Right, so you swanned in, waved your sword around a bit and claimed all the credit at the end, the way all your lot do. I'll bet they were only in half as much trouble until you decided they needed saving."

"Tristan, that's enough." Isolde has her eyes on Hunith, and she lays a placating hand on Tristan's arm. 

Beyond pressing his mouth into a thin, unhappy line, Arthur hasn't reacted, but now he looks up, past Merlin to his mother.

"Hunith, I think you should still have the mail shirt from a few years ago? And if anyone could spare me a pair of trousers that actually fit, I'd be very grateful to finally stop looking like the village idiot."

Letting go of Merlin's arm, his mother goes to Arthur, pointedly ignoring Tristan. "Of course, Sire. Come with me."

As they disappear down the road, Tristan pulls his arm out from under Isolde's hand, scowling after them. "And I bet he's not even going to pay for them either."

"Oh, he would," Merlin says. "But we already gave you all our gold. And I don't think anyone here would ask him for money, not after what he did for them. See if you have similar luck." He walks off, not looking back, trying to catch up with his mother and Arthur before they reach the house.

~

They might be over the border and on the run, but Arthur still knows how to keep Merlin busy. It's not until he's rebound Arthur's ribs (bruised but seemingly healing cleanly), found a pair of trousers and boots for him (donated by another grateful neighbour), and stuffed him into the spare hauberk (a little snug but Hunith has kept it clean and serviceable) that Merlin decides he's earned a bit of a break. 

It's gone midday, but it's hard to tell that from the sky, which is still overcast and threatening rain. Merlin takes a heel of bread that's leftover from yesterday and mostly hard before glancing over at Arthur, who has claimed a chair by the fireplace and is staring into the ashes.

"I'll be back soon," Merlin says, waiting to see if Arthur will respond. In reply, he gets what might have been a quick nod or might just be Arthur trying not to fall asleep. Either way, when Arthur doesn't say anything, Merlin adds an apple to what will be his lunch and makes his way out of the village.

The pond where he told Aithusa to wait for him isn't big, just enough to be worth swimming in, not that he has any plans to do so today. He's had quite enough of being cold and wet. It isn't until he gets there that it occurs to him he could heat the water with magic, now, without having to worry about Arthur finding out. On the other hand, he's not entirely sure what effect warm water would have on the river downstream, and as much as he could use a big, hot bath, he doesn't want to be responsible for decimating the fish population.

Aithusa, of course, is completely unaffected by the cold, and has apparently decided that a bath is in order for her as well. Even before he reaches the pond, Merlin can hear her splashing in the water and when he opens his mind a little, he can feel her simple delight at being clean again. She's a fussy creature, much more so than Kilgharrah, although possibly he's just grown out of it. Either way, the pleasure she's getting from ducking her head in the water and making waves through it with her tail is enough to make Merlin grin.

She looks up as he enters the clearing, splashing to the bank nearest him and stretching her wings for balance as she climbs out. In the filtered, dim sunlight, she gleams, the water pouring off her scales as she keens what is probably supposed to be a greeting. Merlin lets her push at him, running his hands down her neck and stroking along her back, and makes a mental note to talk to Kilgharrah about this again. He doesn't know when dragons are supposed to be able to start speaking, or even if it's something they can manage on their own, and Kilgharrah has been frustratingly cryptic on the subject.

 

_"What do you want her to say?" Kilgharrah sounded amused at his question, and Merlin shrugged._

_"I'm not sure, I just thought it would be nice to be able to talk to her."_

_"And so you can. Whenever you can find the time to see her." There was a definite hint of reproach there, which would have been annoying if Kilgharrah didn't have a point._

_"I do what I can," Merlin said, looking at Aithusa who was curled up at his feet again, and wondered if she could understand that they were talking about her. "But it's not easy to get away."_

_"You have responsibilities, Merlin. They should not be neglected."_

_That stung, and for all that Merlin usually tried not to give too much away - the great dragon already knew far too much, at least as far as Merlin was concerned - he let some of his annoyance bleed through, knowing Kilgharrah would sense it._

_"I have responsibilities to Arthur as well, you know. And he is king now. It's not so simple any more." In truth, it had never been simple, but with the added weight of having to watch Agravaine drip poison into Arthur's ear, it had become even harder to excuse himself from court. He didn't like to disappear for any length of time, not knowing what he might come back to._

_Apparently a little chagrined by Merlin's irritation, Kilgharrah settled himself on the ground more comfortably, bending his head in acknowledgement. "Then we should make the most of the time we have."_

 

There are times when Merlin suspects Kilgharrah only sounds cryptic when he doesn't know the answer. Gaius has a similar habit, and it's deeply irritating, not only for making Merlin feel stupid, but also because he wouldn't ask if he didn't need to know. The thought of Gaius takes his mind back to Camelot, and it's only when Aithusa knocks her snout against his knee that he realises his hand has come to a stop on her head. 

'Sorry," he says, resuming his petting, and forcing himself to push the thoughts aside. He would know if Gaius were dead, or Gwaine or Elyan for that matter. He has to believe that. Probably picking up on his swirling doubts, Aithusa keens again, lifting her head to look at him. She's trying to reassure him, offer some sort of comfort and the feel of her mind alongside his is warm and secure. For a moment, he just leans his head down towards hers, closing his eyes and losing himself in her simple trust and love, wishing he felt deserving of either.

"Merlin?"

He'd half expected Arthur to follow him here, but the voice from behind him is female, gentle, a little nervous, and just as familiar as Arthur's. Better than that, it doesn't make him jump, the way Arthur would have, and he takes a moment to pull away from Aithusa gently, opening his eyes to smile at her before turning around.

"Hello, Gwen."

She looks better than when he last saw her. Tired, perhaps, and there is dirt between her fingers and clinging to the hem of her skirt that shows she's been working hard. But when she takes a few tentative steps towards him, there's no trace of a limp from her injury, and although her eyes are huge with surprise, they don't seem haunted the way they did the last time he saw her.

"Is that..." she trails off, shaking her head. "No, obviously it's a dragon, that's a silly question. But what... I mean, how? No, that's not right either." She shakes her head again, as though trying to work out if she's really seeing what's in front of her. Her mouth opens and closes a few more times, before she manages, "Merlin?"

He manages not to laugh at her confusion, holding a hand out instead, beckoning for her to join him. "Gwen, I'd like you to meet Aithusa." He puts his other hand on the dragon's head. "Aithusa, this is my friend, Gwen."

Gwen looks a little nervous, but she puts down the sack she'd been carrying and comes a few steps forwards, mouth still open in surprise. There's an edge of wonder to her expression as she comes close enough to take Merlin's hand, and he can feel her fingers trembling in his. Impatient, Aithusa huffs a little, then nudges at Merlin, getting him to move so that she can come a little nearer, sniffing at Gwen's skirts.

Alarm crosses Gwen''s face and her grip on Merlin's hand tightens. "Please tell me that you told her not to eat me."

He has to laugh at that, pulling Gwen closer and turning so that he can put an arm around her waist, guiding their joined hands down to stroke along Aithusa's snout. "I promise, she is not going to eat you. You're too big for her anyway."

"As long as she knows that." For all that there is a tremor in her voice, Gwen is smiling as well, watching Aithusa with something close to delight. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she says, looking up at Merlin with such amazement on her face that he has to laugh. She laughs with him, then turns back to Aithusa, moving her hand with more confidence now and scratching behind her ears. 

A little while later, he and Gwen are settled on two of the flat rocks by the pond, watching Aithusa swim happily back and forth, occasionally ducking her head completely, although Merlin doubts she'll catch any fish. They talk for a while, Merlin working his way through the bread and apple as Gwen talks about life in Ealdor, how the people have been good to her and how she appreciates being able to work for her bed and board. She doesn’t mention Arthur, but he does, telling her about how they’d had to flee Camelot, about Agravaine’s betrayal, and how Tristan and Isolde have been dragged into Camelot’s mess. 

"So," Gwen says when he finishes, her hands fiddling with the hem of her apron, "how long have you been friends with a dragon?"

Merlin doesn't know if she's doing it on purpose or not, but if he wants to, he could answer that without admitting anything. He could make up something about having found her in the forest, or about her living near his village for years, or anything really. It's not like Gwen will know much about dragons, having grown up in Camelot where knowledge of these things is treason. It's tempting, to lie to her as usual.

"She was born about six months ago," he says instead. "Just after Uther died." Gwen doesn't speak, just gives him an encouraging look, all interest and no fear or condemnation, so he goes on, "I rescued the egg. It was too important to even let Arthur have it, and if it had got back to Camelot, Agravaine might have got his hands on it. She deserves to be free." He watches Aithusa dive again, her white shape showing clearing below the surface, and doesn't even want to think about her chained and trapped as Kilgharrah had been. 

"Merlin," Gwen says, then stops, as though not sure how to phrase the question she must want to ask, and he's actually grateful, since he's not sure how to answer. It's easier to show her.

Closing his eyes, he reaches out to Aithusa, drawing her in with mind as well as words. _"Aithusa. Come here"_

He hears Gwen gasp once, then again as Aithusa surfaces from the pond just beside him, curious and interested as to why she's been summoned. When Merlin opens his eyes, he's still got her mind so close to his that the power flows between them and he knows his eyes will still be glowing. Gwen gasps for a third time, then leans urgently towards him, taking his hands. 

"You have magic," she says, searching his face as though looking for something she'd missed before.

"I have magic." He's more relieved than he'd expected that her first reaction was not to draw away, and he grips her hands tightly and tries to smile through his nerves. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you."

"Don't be silly, Merlin." Although Gwen is still looking at him, her eyes are distant, as though remembering every occasion when she might have worked it out before. Then Aithusa noses at her hand again, reminding her that she shouldn’t get distracted, and Gwen laughs, easy and happy, making Merlin grin back at her.

It’s so much simpler with Gwen. There’s still an edge of nervousness to her expression, but it’s warring with interest and something that might be acceptance.

"Does Arthur know?" That’s the most important question, of course, for all that he’d rather not think about it.

"He knows." When Gwen doesn’t say anything, just raises her eyebrows expectantly, Merlin sighs. "He didn’t cut my head off on the spot, so that’s a good start. But he’s actually got bigger things to worry about right now." For all that Arthur is angry with him, might never be able to forgive him, Merlin’s not about to overestimate where he comes on Arthur’s list of problems right now.

Gwen presses her lips together and looks away. "What will he do? He can’t just hide here forever." 

He can’t, of course, however tempting it might be. "A lot of the townspeople got away, and some of the knights with them, I’m sure of it," Merlin says, the half-formed idea become complete as he says the words. "If anything should happen, there’s a place in the forest of Essetir where they’ll gather. Leon knows it, and if he didn’t make it, I’m sure Percival did. So we find them, gather up anyone else who escaped and re-take Camelot."

"Just like that?"

"Well, there’s probably more to it than that, but that’s Arthur’s area of expertise."

Gwen laughs a little. "And what’s yours?"

"Morgana." He’s known since he told Arthur about his magic that it would come to this. Arthur can fight the Southrons, no matter the odds, and probably win. Whether Merlin’s own powers will be enough to defeat Morgana, he has no idea, but for Arthur, he has to try.

Gwen’s expression is unreadable, her eyes distant. "I can’t believe she used to be our friend." She shakes her head a little, frowning. "She wants Arthur dead."

"I am not going to let that happen." Merlin leans forward, taking her hand in his. "I swear to you, Gwen. I will not let Morgana harm Arthur."

"I know." She grips his fingers tightly, but she can’t quite meet his eyes. "Merlin, it’s just..." She swallows and when she tries again, her voice is little more than a whisper. "Did magic do this to her?"

One of the tight knots in his chest that had started to unravel tightens again, leaving him breathless for a moment, and Gwen winces as he nearly crushes her fingers in his. "No," he says, low and certain, slipping from the rock to kneel in front of her, looking up into her face. "No, Gwen, this is not what magic does. Morgana is consumed with anger and hatred. That is what did this to her." He shakes his head, because that is not all of it, and he is trying to tell as much truth as he can now. "I should have helped her when she spoke to me. I should have done something before, but I didn't. Fear of Uther, my fear and hers, did this to her. It’s my fault."

Every time he thinks he is done with confessions, there is another to be made, more wrongs to atone for. He wonders if he will ever be free of them. He can’t look at Gwen any more, dropping his head and starting to pull away, but she catches him, pulls him close so that his forehead is resting against her knee and her hand gently stroking through his hair. If he lifts his head, he will not be able to keep the dam from bursting, so he leans into her for a long moment, letting her soothe him until he can breathe again.

When he finally looks up, she smiles down at him, sad and small, and he sees that there are tears on her face as well. 

"How can you carry all this, Merlin?" She moves her hand to his face, cupping his cheek. "Your magic, the dragons, Morgana, Arthur. It’s too much."

He shakes his head, because she doesn’t understand. "It’s my destiny," he says, and hearing the words gives him strength from somewhere, although part of that is coming from Gwen’s warm hand in his, the unquestioning friendship that she has always offered him and now feels like a real, physical presence against his heart. Maybe he can do this after all.

~

The look Arthur gives him when he and Gwen walk back into the village is enough to make Merlin doubt his conviction from earlier. It's almost dark now, and there is hardly anyone out and about. Arthur has apparently been waiting for Merlin, stalking up and down with a scowl on his face. He stops when he sees Merlin and Gwen, and it's the most animation Merlin has seen in his face all day, even if he’s standing stock still in the middle of the path.

Gwen doesn’t hesitate, going straight up to Arthur, stopping an arm’s length away. "Hello, Arthur," she says. 

From where he’s standing, Merlin can’t see her face, but he can see Arthur’s, the fight between delight and anger that flickers across his expression before he can get it under control.

"Hello, Guinevere," he says, sounding a little stunned. His eyes flicker to Merlin’s, asking _did you know_ before settling back on Gwen’s face. That seems to be all he can say, just staring at Gwen as though seeing her for the first time.

"It’s good to see you." Keeping her voice low, Gwen stretches out one hand towards him, then the other when Arthur doesn’t flinch away. Her fingers trail lightly down his arms, the touch making Arthur shiver visibly.

"I’ve missed you." From the way he snaps his mouth shut immediately, the words seem to have been as much of a surprise to Arthur as they are to Gwen, who lifts her head, voice shaking as she replies.

"And I you." Her hands have reached his now, her fingers wrapping around Arthur’s as she says, "Merlin’s told me everything that happened. When you leave, I’m coming with you. I want to help."

Arthur nods, apparently dumbstruck at first, then he slowly pulls his hands from her grasp, taking half a step away. "Camelot will need all the help she can get."

"I’m not just doing this for Camelot, Arthur. I want to help _you_." She stresses the last word, reaching out for him again, but he shakes his head, turning away.

"I can’t," he whispers. Then he turns on his heel and heads back towards Merlin's house without saying a word, taking any little hope Merlin had let himself feel with him.

Gwen stands watching him go for a long time before turning and coming back to Merlin, who can only watch her helplessly. "It's alright," Gwen says, gently taking the sack that he’s been carrying for her. "I'll come and join you once I've given this to Edward. No, Merlin," she says, smiling with that same sad smile from the pond-side, and repeating, "It's alright," before leaving him, standing in the growing dark, not knowing where he's supposed to go.

His mother solves the dilemma for him, coming from behind and touching his shoulder. When he turns, she is trying to smile, but her face is full of so much worry that he can't return it.

"What's wrong?" he asks, letting her draw him away from the other houses, further into the darkness.

"I think Arthur knows," she whispers, and even though they are alone and cannot be overheard, she still will not use the word.

He hadn't thought of this, how his mother would react to his secret being out. She has spent her whole life protecting him, making sure that no one knew, and while Camelot was dangerous for him, she knew Gaius would look after him as she would. For him to throw away their years of care is another guilt that he will add to the pile with the others.

Now, he stops her, putting a hand on each of her shoulders and waiting for her to look up him. "I had to tell him," he says, shaking his head to stop her when she opens her mouth to protest. "He saw something that I couldn’t explain away, and I couldn't keep it from him after that." She doesn't say anything, just flings her arms around him, holding him so tightly that he thinks he might break. He bends instead, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. "It's alright, Mother, I promise. He could have killed me on the spot, but he didn't. And he's asking questions, wants to know things. He's not Uther." 

He can feel that her breath is coming ragged now, as though she's holding back sobs, and he pulls away, running his hands down her arms so he can hold them apart enough to see her face. Shaking her head, she looks away.

"It's not safe, Merlin. You can't-"

"I trust him with my life, Mother. I trust him with this as well. He just needs a little time." He reaches out to touch her cheek when something catches his attention, just a flicker out of the corner of his eye, making him look up and past her, searching for whatever it was. It takes him a moment, because he was looking around the village, not at the ridge above. He knows his mother has seen it too because she gasps and grips his arm so tightly he thinks it might bruise. 

"Merlin..."

"Get Gwen," he says, voice rougher than he means it to be. "Tell her to meet us at the threshing barn as soon as she can. I need you to stay with Edward. If they know where you live, it'll be the first place they look." 

She nods, then pulls his face down to kiss him before pulling out of his hold and running into the shadows. He watches her go, trying to rid his mind of the pale, terrified look on her face and force his attention back. There's no time for regrets now, and no time for goodbyes. All around the village he can see the flickering lights of torches, the outlines of men dark against the moonlit sky. Within minutes the village will be alerted, but Merlin can’t worry about them right now. He needs to find the others, and they need to get out of here. 

"Time to go," Merlin whispers to himself, taking two deep breaths against the panic before he starts to run.

~

The empty barn smells musty and damp this far away from harvest time, and the dust makes Merlin's nose itch. He rubs at it absently, knowing that under no circumstances right now must he sneeze. Behind him, someone sniffs. Through the opening, he has a fairly good view of the road approaching this end of the village, but to get to the caves, they need to cross open ground. With five of them at once, it won’t be easy, although he’s sure Tristan and Isolde can move like ghosts when they want to. Gwen is wearing travelling clothes now, breeches and boots and a warm fur wrap that Merlin thinks might have been Morgana’s once. They are all hiding in the shadows for now, waiting for his signal.

Arthur is close behind him, breathing almost down the back of Merlin's neck, and he barely needs to whisper for Merlin to hear him. 

"Agravaine." It's not much more than a breath, warm against Merlin's ear. He nods, leaning a little further out. The men are in the main village, screams and shouts marking their progress. It won't take them long to get out here, and Merlin doesn't want to think what will happen then. 

He leans back again until his shoulder is pressed into Arthur's. "We can go out of the back door, but we'll be on the path for a minute before we get to the trees. I'll distract them, you get everyone out, up to the caves beyond the forest."

Close as they are, he can feel as much as hear Arthur draw breath, almost certainly to protest, only to let it out and nod, just once. For all that Arthur is a noble idiot, he also has better tactical knowledge than Merlin and at last, he knows all the skills at his disposal. 

"We'll wait for you at the tree line," he whispers, then he's gone and Merlin tries not to stumble as he catches his balance again. 

They wait for what feels like an hour, Merlin pressed against the doorpost at the front, the others huddling at the back, waiting for his signal. He forces himself not to begrudge the waiting or wish it away; when things happen, they will all happen at once.  
Timing is everything. Eventually, Agravaine and his men come into sight, their torches making Merlin blink against the brightness. He can't tell how many there are, but he can hear Agravaine, knows he will be at the front of the group. It's time.  
He holds up a hand towards the others, reaching out for his magic, still holding back for exactly the right moment. When the men are a scant thirty paces away, he lets it go, using his magic to give Arthur's shoulder a slight push, to let him know it's time. Then he focuses on the hay cart a little way back from the path, setting it moving and giving it an extra nudge for speed. He waits until it is rolling by itself then whispers, _"Bærne."_ The sudden flare of light is almost painful, and he turns away, blinking back tears and hoping he doesn't miss the back door while he's half-blinded.

Outside, the shouts of alarm seem louder, ringing in his ears as he begins to run. The night air is cold in his lungs and the ground under his feet is too soft to get a good grip for any real speed. He does his best, making it almost to the treeline, where he can see Arthur's fair hair between the shadowy branches, when a shout behind him makes him stumble.

"They're getting away!"

Arthur grabs his arm before he can run into a low-hanging branch and swings him into the shelter of the tree trunk.

"How many?" he asks. Merlin shakes his head, partly because he's not sure and partly because this is not a good time to stop.

"Too many," he gasps, pulling against Arthur's grip. "We have to make it to the caves."

It's too dark to see Arthur's face, but Merlin catches a movement that he thinks is a nod. "Gwen, do you know how to get there?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then take the longer path around the edge of the forest, and stay out of sight as much as you can. We’ll lead them off and meet you there." 

There's a moment where Merlin thinks she's going to refuse, then the shouts from behind them rise in volume, and she says instead, "Be careful, Arthur."

Arthur holds onto Merlin for another three seconds, letting the others have a head start, then starting to run. It’s so dark that Merlin has no idea how they’re not stumbling more, and it’s mostly Arthur’s iron grip on his arm that keeps him upright and moving. His feet slip on the muddy ground, pushing him enough off balance that for a second, the only reason he isn’t flat on his face is that Arthur will not let him go. As it is, the tightness of the grip is almost enough to make him cry out, but he swallows the yelp of pain and gets his feet under him again to stumble onwards.

"Too late," Arthur says, and Merlin hears the slide of a sword being drawn. He doesn’t see what Arthur’s seen, not at first, then movement catches his eye again. In the trees up ahead, there are flickering torches and now he and Arthur are slowing to a stop, Merlin can hear other footsteps on the leaves, the rustling of people moving without care because they don’t have to. "He must have sent some men on ahead." Arthur’s voice is grim. "We’re surrounded." 

He releases Merlin and shifts his sword to a two-handed grip. Merlin’s arm aches and his shoulder hurts from his near-fall, but it’s just background noise against the fear buzzing in his mind, the rush of blood in his ears. "Arthur," he begins, only for Arthur to seize his arm again, giving him bruises on bruises and making him gasp.

"Can you fight?" In the darkness and distant, flickering torchlight, there is something wild and desperate in Arthur’s eyes that Merlin doesn’t think is all from fear of the men around them. He knows what it must be costing Arthur to ask this of him, the thought of it closing around his throat so that he can’t speak, only nod jerkily. Arthur doesn’t let him go at once, holding him close enough that Merlin can feel Arthur’s ragged breathing as well as his own. They don’t have time for this, not really, but Arthur is looking into his eyes still, and Merlin suddenly knows the answer Arthur needs. Magic is still throbbing at the back of his mind, as fierce and determined as Arthur looks, waiting for release. He doesn’t know what he will do yet, but Merlin lets down enough of his barriers that the power surges into him, hot and ready and he can feel the moment when it turns his eyes gold.

For the briefest of brief moments, Merlin thinks he sees Arthur smile, grim in the darkness, and Merlin knows that look. It’s one that doesn't bode well for anyone who chances to get in Arthur’s way. Then the moment has passed, and Arthur is pulling him onwards saying, "You watch behind and to the left. I’ll take the right." It goes without saying, of course, that Arthur will take on anyone stupid enough to come at him from the front. 

They’re not moving as quickly as before, their shoulders pressed together and occasionally nearly tripping over each other’s feet. Merlin is trying to look over his shoulder and away to the left at the same time, not at all sure that he’s going to make it all the way to the caves without ending up with a face full of mud at some point. He’s not even sure what he’ll do when the inevitable attack comes. He’s fought countless bandits, soldiers, even friends on occasions, always from the shadows, and always without Arthur seeing anything.

But now, Arthur is relying on him to watch their backs, and it’s that, more than anything, that is keeping Merlin going. He glances back again, nearly shouting with surprise because he’s sure their pursuers weren’t so close before. His reaction is pure instinct, the same _protect, protect, protect_ that he felt for Aithusa two days - a lifetime - ago. It takes almost no effort to push out with his magic, throwing the men nearest him off their feet, hopefully to land on their companions. At the very least, he hears the cry go up _sorcery_ and hopes it will give them cause to hesitate. 

He sweeps his gaze around to the left, seeing more torches coming at them and again, he tries to strike out with force, hoping to push them back. There’s no good line of sight though, and he knows his second blow was not as effective as his first. Aware he’s lost track of Arthur, he turns to try to find him again, only to hear the first clash of steel on steel. 

Arthur is only a little way off, fighting two men at once and occasionally making wild sweeps of his sword to make others keep their distance. As Merlin races towards him, Arthur wrestles a torch off one of his attackers, clubbing them with it in the process and now he is using sword and flame together, driving the men back far enough to give him breathing room. 

It can’t last. One man can hold a narrow passage against all comers, but there is no wall for Arthur to put his back against and it’s only a matter of time before someone manages to get past his defences. He’s also being forced to retreat a little with every blow, back towards the forces that are regrouping and coming after them again. With a wordless cry, Merlin lashes out at one man who was bold enough to try to move behind Arthur, catching him hard enough that the man goes flying through the air out of sight. 

Then Merlin has his back to Arthur’s, pressing against him so that he knows he is covered and can press forwards again. Merlin’s own hands are raised and he can feel the magic flowing easily into him. It’s heady, this sense of power, and he arcs his arm through the air, casting a wave of force that has men crying out throughout the tree cover.

"It’s not enough," Arthur shouts. "There’s too many of them." He half-staggers under an onslaught, and suddenly, Merlin is bearing most of his weight. It’s easier than he’d expected, the magic rolling through both of them for an instant before he pushes back, helping Arthur gain his feet again even as more shouts come out of the darkness.

"We need help," Merlin calls back, sweeping the men trying to come in from his right from their feet and driving their swords into the ground.

"It would also help if we could see what we were doing." There's a frustrated grunt from Arthur, although how he has the breath for anything but fighting, Merlin has no idea.

"I can give you light." As soon as Merlin looks in one direction, three people appear from another. They'll be overwhelmed if they can't move or get help soon. "How much do you want?"

"You know me, Merlin," Arthur says, and for all that he's panting, Merlin can hear the grin in his voice. "I'm not fussy." 

Snorting a little, Merlin pulls his awareness away from Arthur, coiling the power around his hand for a moment, gathering himself. There's no way to warn Arthur what he’s going to do, not without warning all the men around them as well. Or at least, there's no way to warn him out loud.

He's never done this before with someone without magic, and Merlin doesn't even know if it will work. As far as he's seen, Arthur is pretty much the _opposite_ of magical, Merlin's opposite in all kinds of ways, but here and now, with his awareness of Arthur so strong at the back of his mind, he thinks it might work. So he opens his mind to that awareness, hoping that if it works, he won't startle Arthur too badly.

 _"Get ready to cover your eyes,"_ he says through the connection, hoping Arthur hears him. _"In five."_

There's still the sound of clashing swords behind him, and Merlin doesn't dare look. He's already trying to keep track of too many things; making sure no one gets too close to them, trying not to move too far away from Arthur, keeping his magic under control for the moment he needs it.

When his mental countdown reaches _one_ , Merlin closes his eyes, calling up all the power he can reach not only from himself, but from deep in the earth beneath him, the trees of the forest around him and something bright and shining in his mind that can only be Arthur. 

Then he lifts his hands towards the sky, channelling the power up and out as he shouts _"Leoht."_. 

Even with his eyes shut, it's dazzling, much brighter than he'd expected, and so much easier than it should be. He knows that the entire forest is soaked in light, white and shining and overwhelming. It will buy them precious minutes, and he cannot afford to waste them.

Still with his head tipped back and the light of his magic swirling around him, he reaches deeper into himself, letting the words come almost unbidden.

_"Ω δράκον, φθέγγομαι αυ σε καλών; συ κατερχέο δεύρο!"_

He's never felt it this strongly before, this mix of power and strength that makes him feel he could do this all day. But someone touches his arm, pulls his wrist down and he almost falls on top of Arthur who is squinting against the light. 

"Merlin, we have to go. Now." Without concentration, Merlin can't maintain the light, and it begins to fade as Arthur starts to drag him away. It’s like falling back into his body from a long way off, and he hears Arthur swearing under his breath as he has to half-carry Merlin the first few paces. There are tears streaming down both their faces, the light now reduced just to searingly bright rather than blindingly so, but it still hurts to open his eyes properly. Even once he has his balance back, he’s too disoriented to really know where they’re going, trusting instead to the feel of Arthur’s hand on his wrist, the presence that’s still in the back of his mind that he knows is Arthur. He can’t not follow, even if his vision is so blurry that it’s all he can do not to walk into a tree.

"Help’s coming," he says, and his voice is rasping, still with the edge of dragon speak to it, making him cough a little.

 

"It’d better be quick, then," Arthur says, making him duck under a branch, steadying him when he sways. "Can you make it to the caves?"

It’s growing dark again now, easing the pressure on Merlin’s mind and eyes. He frowns at Arthur, aware that it’s not very convincing when he still can’t see him properly and he can feel how wet his face is with sweat and tears. "I’m fine," he says, letting himself smile a little when Arthur snorts.

"It’s all relative, I suppose." Arthur is pulling him on again, up the shallow slope that Merlin knows leads to the cave mouth. The way seems clear, with most of the groaning and yelling coming from behind them, but it won’t take long for the Southrons to regroup. With each step, Merlin is coming more and more back to himself, and when his feet hit rock rather than the earth of the forest floor, he feels steady enough to free his wrist from Arthur’s hand. He scoops up a fallen branch from one of the last trees, glancing back into the forest as he does so. 

Arthur has already climbed up the first of the rocks, then stops to look back. "Merlin?"

"He’s here." The sense has been growing in him for a while, he just didn’t realise it while his head was still so full of magic. Now he can hear it as well as feel it, the steady beat of giant wings, closely followed by a great breath that can only mean one thing.   
Flames fill the forest. They’re not as dazzling as Merlin’s light had been, the yellow-gold too flickering to be truly blinding, but Merlin can feel their heat even from this distance away. The cries of pain from the forest become screams of terror, real panic setting in as Kilgharrah turns and returns for another pass.

"Is that..." Arthur actually flinches as the flames engulf the trees once again, and when Merlin turns to look at him, his eyes are wide and wondering.

Merlin lifts the branch he’s holding and gently coaxes the end to light, not wanting to risk too much power when it’s still fizzing under his skin. Kilgharrah’s doing a pretty good job of setting fire to the trees; he probably doesn’t need Merlin’s help. Then Merlin reaches out with his free hand and gently turns Arthur back towards the caves. "Come on," he says,"the others will wonder where we are."


	4. Dragonlord

  
_You can know the name of a bird in all the languages of the world, but when you're finished, you'll know absolutely nothing whatever about the bird... So let's look at the bird and see what it's doing -- that's what counts. I learned very early the difference between knowing the name of something and knowing something._  
Richard Feynman

As it turns out, the others haven’t gone far at all, probably not wanting to risk venturing too deep into the caves without a guide. They’re all looking to Merlin, even Arthur, who still seems a little dazed by what he’s just seen.

"What’s going on?" Tristan asks, taking the branch from Merlin, and holding it higher. "We saw some kind of light." 

"We slowed them down," Merlin says, noticing as he lifts his hand that it is trembling a little. "But we have to keep moving."

"You think anyone will survive that?" It’s Arthur who asks, standing just within the halo of torchlight and giving Merlin a look that might be challenging.

"I think I don’t want to take the risk." Turning away before anyone else can ask him anything, Merlin says, _"Leoht,"_ again, this time bringing forth just a small sphere of light that hovers above his palm. It’s just enough to see the way ahead, and he forces himself to think properly, searching for calm amongst the images in his mind of light and flames and the screams of dying men, and against the magic that is still buzzing in his mind, wanting to be free. He doesn’t dare say anything, just leads the way into the maze of passageways, using the memory of childhood adventures to ground himself. He remembers spending hours up here with Will, daring each other further and deeper until they knew every cavern and passageway by heart. 

There are changes in here since those boyhood exploits, and everything looks different now he is taller, having to duck to keep from bumping his head in some of the lower chambers. On the other hand, he can do now what he did then, gently trailing one hand along the cold stone and letting his magic guide him forwards. It’s a simple trick, easier now than it ever was, and he speeds up a little, knowing the others are right behind him. 

He’s almost let himself breathe, knowing that they are halfway into the cave system which means they are on their way out again, when he hears the first sounds behind them. The rock makes everything reverberate oddly, but there’s no mistaking the noise of booted footsteps or the jangling of weapons. Merlin comes to a stop and looks around, catching Arthur’s eye and knowing he heard it as well.

"Looks like you were right to be a pessimist," Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. He has one hand on Gwen’s back, and Merlin assumes he’s been steadying her over some of the more difficult obstructions, his touch instinctive and apparently unnoticed by him.  
"I’ll go back," Merlin replies automatically, already moving, but when he draws level with Arthur, he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"You’ve done enough today," Arthur says, and it’s gentle, not the accusation that it might have been.

"So have you."

"Look, the rest of us aren’t exactly defenseless," Tristan says irritably. He’s been bringing up the rear, keeping the way lit from the back as Merlin has from the front, and now his free hand is resting on his sword.

To Merlin’s slight surprise, Arthur actually smiles and nods at that, although he hasn’t looked away from Merlin yet. "I know," he says, his gaze still searching Merlin’s face. Whatever he finds there must satisfy him because he nods, glancing down at Gwen then turning to face Tristan, pulling Gwen with him. "And that’s why I’m asking you to take Guinevere with you out of here. If our gold doesn’t cover it," he says, glancing at the purse that is still hanging from Tristan’s belt, "then take her to the survivors of Camelot. They know where the treasury reserves are held. Just tell them that I told them to reward you handsomely." 

Gwen twists away from him, a pained look on her face. "Arthur, no."

"Yes, Gwen." He takes her by the shoulders and in the dim light, Merlin can see the seriousness in his eyes. "Do this for me. Please." 

There’s so much Arthur isn’t saying that it hangs between them for a moment, as stifling as the cold, dank air. Merlin thinks Gwen might refuse, insist on waiting for them, but then she drops her head, looking away, and Arthur looks back at Tristan.

"Well?"

"You did say _handsomely_ rewarded?" Tristan says, and at Arthur’s curt nod, he shrugs. "Fine. A job’s a job, and I suppose your gold is as good as anyone else’s. Where do we find these elusive people of yours, assuming they remember who you are."

"The forest of Essetir," Merlin says, trying not to notice the way Arthur is pressing his lips together, tight and angry.

Tristan nods. "And what are you going to do?"

In the cramped space, there’s no room for Arthur to draw his sword, but from the way his hand is gripping the hilt, his meaning is clear.

"Merlin and I are going to stop them."

~

"So," Merlin says, three minutes later as they hurry back down the passage, the light hovering in front of them, "what’s the plan?"

Arthur gives him a sidelong look. "You mean you don’t have one?"

"I thought you were in charge."

"Could have fooled me." 

"Arthur-"

Waving away his reply, Arthur shakes his head. "I know, and it’s alright, Merlin. Trust me, I’m saving it all up for later, but now is not the time." They jog in silence for another few paces, then Arthur starts to talk, his voice low and steady, the same as when he is planning the battlefield, organising his troops. "If they’re coming in after us, then someone’s leading them. Foot soldiers don’t brave a knight, a sorcerer and a dragon without a really good incentive or someone shouting at them. So we target the leader, make sure he’s taken down, and hope the men scatter."

It’s not a bad plan at all, but Merlin can see an obvious problem right away. "Arthur, what if the leader’s Agravaine?"

Arthur doesn’t break his strides, doesn’t even suggest that the idea troubles him except in the white knuckles of his hand on his sword. "It doesn’t matter," he says, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. "The plan is that we take down the leader. Is that simple enough for you?"

It is, and Merlin nods, even though Arthur isn’t looking at him. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just what you did before." Apparently sensing Merlin’s surprise, Arthur rolls his eyes a little. "No, not the light show, thank you, I’d like to keep my eyeballs unsinged." He grows quiet, eyes flickering to Merlin for an instant, then he says, "Watch my back."  
There’s no trace of mockery or fear in it, just a low seriousness that makes something at the back of Merlin’s mind flicker into life again, so distracting and sharp that he nearly runs into a wall. He’s sure Arthur will laugh at him for that, the start of a smile curling his own lips, when they hear voices up ahead. 

Arthur draws his sword, having to hold it low and tight to his body in the small tunnel. "Ready?" he says, then plunges on, not waiting for an answer.

It’s only when three men are down, dead or sensible enough to feign it, that Merlin understands what Arthur meant about watching his back. This is just a small group - there are more voices coming from all the caverns around them now - but Arthur is cutting through them, hacking and slicing without checking to see if the men he passes are dead. He’s the cavalry, weakening the line, mowing them down where he can, trusting to Merlin that no one is going to rise up and strike him down from behind. That’s easy enough to do, but it’s grim work, slamming men into the rocks and hearing bones crunch or shatter. 

Before he really notices, they are through, leaving bodies and groaning men in their wake. Merlin’s magic is stirring again, the power growing each time he uses it. In such a confined space, he can’t let it loose, can’t risk bringing the whole hillside crashing down on them, so he focuses instead on the spark at the back of his mind that is keeping him in the here and now. Distantly, he remembers Arthur once telling him that he’d been trained to kill from birth. Merlin hadn’t really thought about what that meant until now, here in the darkness lit only by his small light and the fallen torches of the men they’ve killed. While it’s threatening to overwhelm Merlin, he can feel the calm steadiness of Arthur’s presence, the training and practice that allows him to press on to his goal without distraction. Merlin doesn’t know if he can ever be like that, but right now, it’s enough that Arthur is.

They pause at the next corner, both catching their breath, and Arthur gives him a crooked smile. "Keep this up, Merlin, and I’m going to have to knight you." There is blood on his hands and spattered along his right arm, as well as a smear along his right cheek. None of it is his, but Merlin can see how he is favouring his injured side, just a little. For all that, he looks more like himself than he has since they left Camelot, and Merlin can’t help but return the smile.

"Careful, Sire, I think you might have taken a blow to the head."

"That must be it." Arthur straightens, adjusting his grip on his sword and taking a few deep breaths. "Ready?"

Without waiting for an answer, he throws himself around the corner, sword raised and with Merlin right on his heels. They half tumble to a stop a few paces along, and Arthur catches Merlin before he can crash into the wall. 

At the far end of the passage, Agravaine is waiting, his own sword in his hand. Behind him, Merlin can see a crowd of Southrons, their torches making the shadows dance along the rocks. Seeing Merlin and Arthur, a slow smile creeps across Agravaine’s face, and he gestures for the men behind him to come to a halt as well.

"Hello, Arthur," he says, taking a step towards them. 

"Uncle." Arthur hasn’t lowered his sword, and he keeps his eyes on Agravaine as he leans towards Merlin. "No interfering. From them or you," he says in an undertone, and Merlin understands. As Arthur steps forwards, Merlin moves to the side of the passage until he is pressed with his back against the rock. At the far end, the men are obviously restless, one of them trying to come forwards to speak to Agravaine. Merlin stops him with a look, pinning his feet to the ground as though he’s just stepped in quicksand. It’s not as flashy or obvious as other things he could have done, but in the dark, he’s sure his eyes must give him away.

Agravaine certainly notices, looking from him to Arthur and back again, the smirk on his face turning knowing.

"So, you’re consorting with sorcerers now, are you, Arthur? What would your father say?"

"I think he’d have more to say to a man who turns on his king," Arthur says, his voice almost emotionless. 

"Camelot deserves better than you, or your father." There’s real hatred in Agravaine’s voice, sending a shiver down Merlin’s back. "You have no idea how to be king."

His words are spoken so softly that when he lunges at Arthur, Merlin actually jumps, hitting his head on an outcropping. Arthur seems to have been ready for it, though, and catches the blow easily, throwing his uncle off and bringing his sword back to the ready position. They can’t circle each other in the tight space, only move back and forth, the light glinting off their blades. Merlin wants to watch, wants to be ready to do something if Agravaine gains the upper hand, but he has his orders and so he forces his attention back to the group of Southrons still blocking the other end of the passage. They seem to be biding their time for now, peering over each other’s shoulders to watch the duel. 

From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Agravaine use his height and weight advantage, driving Arthur back a few paces, his blows fierce and almost hacking. Arthur is stepping easily, but he is falling back, blocking and defending every strike, and the impacts must be horribly jarring. It’s the first time Merlin wishes he knew more about these things, wishes he knew if Arthur was bluffing, letting Agravaine wear himself down and reveal any weaknesses. If he is, it’s a good bluff, because Arthur is half-stumbling now, falling to his right and turning the angle of the fight so that Agravaine has his back to Merlin. 

The passage forces them into much closer quarters now, and that must have been what Arthur was waiting for, because he comes up from his stumble with renewed force, moving so quickly that Agravaine tries to retreat a few paces, only to find his back to the wall. The Southrons must sense the change, because one takes half a step forwards, getting no further before Merlin reaches out a hand and holds him in place. Another tries and Merlin extends the net of his power, trying to keep at least some of his concentration on the fight at the same time. 

The Southrons are fighting him, though, and he has to bring more of his mind to bear on them, balancing the power that wants to sweep them all away and bringing up his other hand to give him something to focus on. 

"Having your servant do your fighting for you?" Agravaine sneers, and Merlin belatedly realises that in his distraction, he’s let the fight get too close to him. Arthur’s eyes are on him for less than an instant, but that’s all Agravaine needs, putting all his weight into a blow that pushes Arthur’s sword to one side, and instead of bringing his own blade back for a strike, he takes a step forward and turns a little, slamming into Arthur’s injured ribs with enough force to drive him into the cave wall. 

Arthur cries out, his knees giving way, and suddenly Merlin has yet another thing to worry about, because Agravaine has turned from Arthur and is closing the distance to Merlin in two long strides. His expression is twisted into a snarl, the look staying on his face even as Merlin brings a hand round to stop him, hold him in place as he’s doing with the Southrons. He knows he has enough power to hold all them, for as long as he wants, but whether he can control that power, he just doesn’t know.

"You’ve been hiding at court all this time," Agravaine says, his voice only a little strained, even as Merlin forces him to drop his sword. Behind him, in the shadows, Merlin can hear Arthur’s ragged breathing and knows they won’t be able to stay like this forever.  
Merlin can’t do this, not with Arthur on his knees in the shadows and with the Southrons pushing against his control. Without thinking, he turns towards them, letting loose the power that is clamouring to be freed. It rushes against them with more force than even he’d expected, knocking them from their feet and scattering them across the cavern floor. He can tell even now that they will not rise again. 

It should be easier now to concentrate on Agravaine, who has taken advantage of his distraction to come another step closer. He holds up his hands when Merlin raises his. "It’s alright, Merlin," he says, his voice almost silky even with the strange echoes of the cavern. "I know it must have been hard for you, standing at Arthur’s side, lying to him. I understand. Perhaps we’re more alike than you think."

The words aren’t distracting; Merlin knows better than to listen to anything Agravaine might say. What’s distracting is Arthur, still hunched over in the darkness, every breath audible in the sudden silence. From here, Merlin can’t tell if he’s injured, or how badly, but that blow to the ribs had been hard, and if he hit his head on the rock-

He might not have been listening to Agravaine, but Merlin should also have known better than to look away from him, even for a split second. There’s a sudden flash of steel again, this time from a short dagger, drawn and raised in so little time that Merlin can’t think. He reacts on instinct, lashing out and driving Agravaine away from him, towards the opposite wall.

There isn’t much force in the blow, Merlin was too surprised for that, still too concerned with not being too free with his power. It doesn’t matter, though, because Agravaine has barely staggered two paces before he comes to a sudden stop, back arcing in a line of pain before his face goes slack and blank. They stand there for a frozen moment, Merlin watching as the last life drains out of Agravaine’s eyes and the stiffness of his body relaxes, crumpling him to the floor. As he falls, Arthur straightens all the way up, heaving his sword from between Agravaine’s ribs and letting him collapse completely. 

They stand there in silence, Merlin staring from the body on the ground to Arthur and back again. The torches have mostly gone out now, and it’s not until Merlin nudges a few of them back to life that he can really see Arthur’s face. Even then, he’s not sure what he’s seeing. There’s something that might be regret, and a boiling anger that Merlin knows must be under the surface somewhere. But he thinks he also sees sadness, and Merlin realises with a start that now, the only blood relative Arthur has left is Morgana, who wants him dead.

It’s Arthur who breaks first, wiping off his blade on Agravaine’s tunic and turning before Merlin can get another look at his face. He doesn’t speak, just leads the way back along the passage without looking back.

~

It's strange, but even on the run, in the middle of a forest, with nothing to their names but three swords and a couple of water skins, Merlin's instinct is still to check that Arthur has everything he needs. Despite what Arthur's always saying, he's not actually that bad a servant, or at least he wouldn't be if he were allowed to concentrate on his job every now and again. What with running errands or gathering herbs for Gaius and making sure the latest magical threat to Camelot is well and truly defeated, it's amazing really that he ever has time for Arthur's laundry.

Out here, there are no such distractions, and he's free to notice the way Arthur lists a little as he walks, or how his eyes are constantly moving, looking out for anything that might be hiding in the trees, waiting for them. When they’d come to the end of the caves, followed in silence when Merlin had insisted they press on towards the forest of Essetir rather than stopping to catch their breath, although whether that was out of genuine agreement or whether Arthur just doesn't have the energy to argue, Merlin can't tell.

If he's honest, he's a little distracted himself, not only from the image of Agravaine's face that he can't get out of his head, but also from the magic that's settled under his skin, making him more aware of it than ever. Magic, like his dragon powers, is something that he's always thought of as coming from deep inside him, constant and ready and hidden. This is different, as though fighting alongside Arthur, using magic with more openness than he ever has before, has broken some kind of barrier and let it reform itself around him. It should feel good, this new freedom, and he's sure it will when he gets used to it. Right now, he's more concerned that he might accidentally knock over a tree or set the forest on fire if he doesn't concentrate.

 

_"Merlin!"_

_The dragon’s roar was just at the edge of his hearing, but Merlin ignored it, focusing on the tree stump in front of him instead. Magic flowed through him, out through his hands and into the wood, warping and twisting it into strange shapes, then with a nudge, setting it alight. He poured more and more power into it, forcing the temperature higher until his hands stung with the heat._

_"Merlin, you must stop!"_

_He wouldn’t hear the words. Not if he concentrated hard enough on the stump, forcing the fire into every crack, hearing it split under the pressure, and then he realised he didn’t need the flames any more. He blinked in the sudden darkness, and behind him, he heard Kilgharrah give what was probably a sigh of relief._

_Too soon._

_Not lowering his hands, Merlin kept his magic locked around the tree stump, engulfing every part of it. He let his anger drive him still further, forcing his own awareness into the wood until he knew every knot and splinter, understood it as he had never understood anything before, making it a part of himself. Then he gathered himself and just-_

_When he opened his eyes, the tree stump was gone. There was no sign it had ever even been there, the holes where the gnarled roots had dug into the ground were closed, and there was only the faint smell of burning in the air. He hadn’t just destroyed it, he had forced it out of the world, as though it had never existed._

_Suddenly exhausted, he tried to turn around, face Kilgharrah at last, except his legs wouldn’t hold him and he ended up sitting on the wet grass, face in his hands._

_"Merlin," Kilgharrah said, softly this time. "I am so sorry."_

_Merlin couldn’t speak, couldn’t even more for a moment, letting Aithusa crawl into his lap, wrapping her tail around his arm and keening softly as she pawed at his hands, trying to pull them away from his face._

_"Please, Merlin." Even in his grief, Merlin could hear the concern in Kilgharrah’s voice, and he forced himself to look up at last, lowering his hands to wrap around Aithusa. This close, the great dragon’s eyes seemed huge, and there was a depth to them that Merlin had not expected, ancient and unknowable._

_He took a shuddering breath, settling Aithusa more comfortably in his arms before he began to speak. "Lancelot was my friend. And Morgana used to him to hurt people I love. It's all gone wrong."_

_As he spoke, Kilgharrah stretched out on the lakeside, his eyes never leaving Merlin, intent and understanding. So Merlin let the words come, and this time when he cried, he knew he was not alone._

 

He only realises that he's been distracted when someone calls his name with an emphasis that suggests it's not the first time they've tried to get his attention. Looking up, he finds Isolde giving him an amused smile. 

"Can you get him to stop as well?" she asks, nodding past Merlin, and he turns to see that Arthur is still striding onwards.

Still a little confused, Merlin hurries to catch up, actually having to put a hand on Arthur's shoulder before Arthur acknowledges him, shaking him off with a glare.

"What?" he says, short and clipped, still glaring when Merlin gestures to where the others are standing watching.

"We should stop here for the night," Gwen says, and although there is a nervousness in her face, her voice is steady and firm as ever. "We still have to cross the ridge to get into the forest, and if we don't make it before nightfall, we'll have to camp in the open. There's good cover here, and we all need rest. It's a good time to stop."

Arthur doesn't say anything, just looks at Gwen blankly as though he hasn't understood. 

Tristan makes an impatient sound. "You're the king, your highness. We're all just waiting for you to tell us what to do."

Not taking his eyes from Gwen, Arthur slowly pulls his sword from his belt, and Merlin sees Tristan's hand move to the hilt of his own sword, but Arthur turns the blade, driving it into the ground so that it stands up on its own.

"I'll get some firewood," he says, turning away from them and heading into the shadows of the trees.

"This is crazy," Tristan says, not bothering to keep his voice down. "You're both acting like he's someone important."

"He is," Gwen tells him levelly, tearing her eyes away from Arthur's retreating back to look up at him. "You don't know him."

"All kings are the same. And a king without a kingdom is just a man in better armour than the rest of us." Irritably, Tristan undoes his sword belt, wrapping it around the sword and throwing it down at the foot of a tree before stretching out next to it.

"You have no idea what you're talking about." Gwen says, real heat in her words now. "Arthur is a great king."

"Then why is he out here with the rest of us, then?" Holding out a hand to Isolde, Tristan shifts over to let her settle beside him. "Let us know if he actually does anything useful. Like bringing back wood for a decent fire."

Giving up, Gwen looks helplessly at Merlin, who shakes his head. "I'm going to see if I can find us anything to eat," he says. "Gwen, make sure Arthur doesn't go too far."

He looks at Tristan for a long moment, trying to work out what it is he wants to say. It's sheer frustration, he knows, because there's nothing he can say here and now, and from the way his fingers are twitching, if he lets his temper go, he's not actually sure what will happen.

So instead, he turns on his heel and stalks out into the growing twilight, hoping he finds something they can have for dinner without having to kill it. If he starts now, he may not be able to stop.

 

_The power frightened him, if he was honest, so he’d been careful this time. When he'd called, he'd only summoned Kilgharrah, needing advice more than comfort._

_"It has been some weeks, Merlin," he said, making himself comfortable in the small clearing. "I trust you are feeling better than last time I saw you."_

_Although the grief was still fresh in his mind, he had been too busy lately to sink into it, and with each day it faded to a duller ache._

_"Much better, thank you," he said. "Although I did want to talk to you about what happened."_

_"To Lancelot?"_

_"To me. The last time I saw you, what I did to that tree stump..." He wasn't actually sure how to phrase it without sounding a bit crazy. After all, he'd been there at the time, even if he hadn't been entirely in his right mind. To have to ask Kilgharrah about it was more than a little embarrassing - it was his magic, isn't he supposed to know what he was doing with it?_

_"You have power, Merlin," Kilgharrah said. "But you do not fully understand how to use it."_

_"That's the problem," Merlin shot back. "There's no one to tell me how. All you keep saying is that I have to use it to make sure Arthur is kept safe, and all Gaius says is that I have to make sure I'm not found out. It's not enough."_

_There was a gentle reproach in Kilgharrah's tone now. "I am not sure what you expect me to do about that, Merlin. Human magic and dragon magic are not the same." He hesitated, and Merlin realised he was hearing something that he'd never heard from Kilgharrah before: uncertainty. "But I do not think anyone can help you with this. You carry the hopes of all Albion in you. Only you can decide what you will do with that responsibility."_

_Mostly, Merlin found that he tried not to think about it. Just trying to keep Arthur safe while avoiding execution for saving him was hard enough. The thought that it wasn't just Arthur, but the whole future of the nation resting on him was too much to bear. He'd seen what it had done to Arthur, who had been raised to understand this sort of responsibility and yet sometimes seemed so weighed down by it that it might crush him._

_Giving in, Merlin slumped down onto a rock, fighting back the mixture of disappointment and fear. He'd thought - foolishly - that Kilgharrah would be able to tell him what he needed to know. But looking up into the dragon's not-unkind expression, he knew it had been a false hope. So he forced himself to take a deep breath._

_"You knew my father," he said instead, seeing Kilgharrah's eyes widen in surprise._

_"For many years."_

_"Tell me something about him? Anything. Gaius won't talk about it, and there's no one left but you that I can ask."_

_Kilgharrah was silent for a while, his eyes fixed on something that Merlin couldn't see. He wondered if he'd broken some kind of dragon-etiquette, or if the memories were just too painful for Kilgharrah to share. Unwilling to press that matter but not sure how long he was supposed to wait, he slowly slid off the rock, settling himself on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest, trying to get comfortable. It was turning chilly, so he stretched out a hand and whispered, "_ "Baerne _," bringing forth just a small fire which hovered above the grass, giving off enough heat to stop him freezing as he waited._

_He was still staring into it, when there was a rumbling like distant thunder and Kilgharrah began to speak._

_"I remember when I first met your father, he was not much more than ten years old and halfway up a tree." ___

__

__As usual, Merlin is out of luck on the ‘not having to kill things’ front, and he ends up with a couple of squirrels, both of which he kills with magic without accidentally burning down the forest, and both of which hang from the stick resting on his shoulder. It’s not much of a dinner for five of them, but after going without hot meat for three days, he's sure everyone will forgive him. Together with the few herbs and roots he was able to scavenge up, it'll be enough that they won't sleep on empty bellies, although it would be nicer as a stew and he wonders if he could magic a cooking pot out of a stone._ _

__It's almost fully dark now, and he has to reach out with magic to find his way back, trusting that no matter what else, he will always be able to find Arthur. His conviction is confirmed when he hears voices up ahead and starts to hurry towards them._ _

__"...just can't be."_ _

__"Arthur, I-"_ _

__This is not what he was looking for. At the far end of the clearing, he can see a fire blazing and two people crouched around it in the darkness. Nearer to him, well out of the reach of the warmth and talking in hushed voices, two other figures are standing, close enough to touch and both firmly keeping their hands at their sides._ _

__"No, Guinevere," Arthur says, and Merlin's heart lurches at the pain in his voice. "What you did to me... Everything I cherished between us, everything we had, it’s gone. That’ll never change. I can't stop-" his voice catches. "I can't stop how I feel about you, but how can I trust you?"_ _

__"I have never stopped loving you, Arthur. Please, you have to know that."_ _

__There is a long silence, then Arthur says, in barely more than a whisper, "I know."_ _

__Which is when Merlin, trying to shift further into the shadows, puts his foot on a stick that breaks with a loud crack, making everyone turn to him. He's fairly sure Tristan and Isolde have their swords out, but he's only looking at Arthur and Gwen, trying to convey apology with his expression alone._ _

__"I brought dinner," he says, in as normal a tone as he can manage._ _

__Gwen takes a shaky breath then holds out her hands. "I'll see to it," she tells him, relieving him of the stick and the small bundle of plants. As she turns away, she lifts a hand to her face, wiping at it before walking quickly towards the fire._ _

__"Arthur, I'm sorry."_ _

__Arthur waves away the apology, his eyes fixed on Gwen as she kneels by the fire, taking Tristan's offered knife to start cleaning the rabbit._ _

__"I can't do this, Merlin," Arthur says, still not looking at him. "What kind of a king am I? Betrayed, deceived, lied to by those closest to me." He turns then, and the light from the distant fire makes him look fierce suddenly. "Why?"_ _

__"I couldn't have told you, Arthur. Even if you hadn't told your father, how could I ask you to lie to him for me?"_ _

__Arthur gives a harsh snort of laughter. "But how did I not see it? How did I not see Agravaine? Morgana? Gwen?" His voice breaks again, and Merlin takes a step closer, acutely aware that it puts him in arm's reach if Arthur decides to lash out._ _

__"You know that Gwen still loves you, Arthur. And as for the others? They wanted your power."_ _

__"And you?"_ _

__"I wanted to keep my head on my shoulders."_ _

__That makes Arthur give him a rueful smile. "You've always lacked ambition, Merlin."_ _

__"I told you once that I'd be happy to remain your servant until the day I die. That's still true." The words ring in his ears, still heartfelt and true, but Arthur just shakes his head._ _

__"I'm not king any more, Merlin. I don't have any right to ask you to serve me."_ _

__"You are the rightful king."_ _

__"I'm good with a sword." Giving a bitter laugh, Arthur takes half a step away, out of Merlin's reach again. "The people of Camelot deserve better."_ _

__"No, they deserve you. Tomorrow, in the forest-"_ _

__"I'll see that you're safely with them, but no, Merlin. No. No more."_ _

__He turns to go, and it hurts so much to see Arthur like this, not even lost and hopeless as he was against the army of the undead but looking _defeated_ that a surge of anger wells up in Merlin._ _

__"No," he says, the word too loud in the quiet forest._ _

__Arthur stops, not looking back. "That's not your decision, Merlin."_ _

__"And it's not yours either. Being king isn't something you choose, it's something you are. I was born with this power, I didn't have a choice. Neither do you."_ _

__That makes Arthur turn, giving him a tired, frustrated look. "Merlin..."_ _

__"No," Merlin says again, and an idea stirs at the back of his mind. It's risky, but at this point, he doesn't have anything to lose. Reaching out, he finds what he's looking for, pulling at it and wrapping it up in his magic until he's sure this will work. He leans to the side a little, calling to the others, "Save us some food. We'll be back."_ _

__"What?" There's a moment of what might be fear on Arthur's face, then he's letting Merlin pull him away, not exactly going willingly but not fighting either "Where are we going?"_ _

__Suddenly, the path ahead seems clear again, and Merlin can see it, shining and bright as day. Aloud, he says, "There's someone I want you to meet."_ _

____

~

Gwen had been right about stopping for the night where they were. The forest thins out as he and Arthur walk through it, reduced to a few scattered trees, then finally they are on open ground with low bushes fringing the slight rise. Beyond the ridge, the forest of Essetir is just visible in the moonlight, a dark mass on the distance, beyond the edge of the plain below.

Up here, it’s wide and huge, feeling fresh after the musty smell of leaves and moss in the forest. Merlin let go of Arthur’s wrist some time ago, trusting to whatever is left of his curiosity to keep him following. Once they are in the open, Merlin lifts his face to the sky, searching half with his eyes and half with his mind, stretching all his senses. He’s still confident that this first part will work, and reasonably sure about the next as well. The rest will be up to Arthur.

As if on cue, Arthur says, "Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here now?"

"Just a little longer," Merlin says, turning to smile over his shoulder. "Trust me."

Arthur snorts at that, shaking his head. "Of all people, I cannot work out why I still listen to you, when you’ve been lying to me for longer than anyone."

"Because you know I can’t lie to you now," Merlin says, almost without thinking, then shrugging at Arthur’s raised eyebrow. "I can’t," he repeats, because it’s true, and the realisation sinks to the bottom of his stomach, because there’s still one thing he hasn’t been able to say, and hopes Arthur will never ask. Turning back to gaze out over the ridge, he pulls himself together; this is not the moment.

They wait in silence for another long minute, long enough that Merlin is starting to worry he’s mistaken his hopes for reality. To distract himself, he reaches out with his magic, finding the forest of Essetir in the distance, searching until he finds what he’s looking for. This is tricky, trying to plant an idea in someone’s head subtly enough that they think it’s their own, and it probably wouldn’t work if Merlin didn’t know these people so well, hadn’t lived for so long side by side with the knights and the servants and the people of Camelot. Instead of specifics, he tries to settle the idea over them like a blanket, soothing and comforting and so natural that when they wake, they’ll know what to do.

Beside him, Arthur shifts restlessly. "It’s a bit exposed up here, Merlin," he starts to say, then breaks off, squinting into the distance. "Is that a bird?"

"What do you think?"

Even from here, in the distance and the dark, it’s impossible to mistake Kilgharrah for anything but what he is. Merlin has never done it like this before, not having a close enough connection to the great dragon to summon him with thought rather than word. He doesn’t know what it means that he has managed it now, only that he is grateful for it as Kilgharrah lands with only a slight thump, inclining his head in greeting.

Merlin jumps a little when Arthur grabs his arm, then winces at the tightness of the grip. "It’s alright," he says, trying to sound soothing while unable to get the grin off his face. He takes a step forwards, forcing Arthur to come with him or let go. 

"Good evening, young warlock," Kilgharrah says, tilting his head a little to look at him better. "It seems your control is growing."

"Thank you for coming," Merlin replies, trying not to let it show in his voice that Arthur’s fingers are pressing hard enough into the soft flesh of his arm to cut off the blood to his hand. "And for saving us earlier."

"You know I will always come when you call. And I am not the only one."

Frowning a little, Merlin follows the nod of Kilgharrah’s head, seeing the second dark shape against the sky. He smiles, reaching out again with his magic and calling Aithusa down to join them. They have to take a few steps backwards to make room for her wings, but Merlin can’t help taking a step towards her again, reaching out as she shakes herself and stretches.

Arthur’s hand on his arm hasn’t loosened its hold at all, and when Merlin glances at him, he’s trying to look at both dragons at once, as though not sure which might be the bigger threat.

"Arthur," Merlin says gently, reaching up to cover Arthur’s hand with his, then prise his fingers free. "This is Aithusa. I know you don’t remember her, but she remembers you." He holds out their joined hands, placing them gently on Aithusa’s head. He’s watching Arthur’s face the whole time, and so he sees the moment when fear tips over into surprise, the look of wonder not so different to the one he’d shown a few days ago when he’d done this for the first time. He looks from Aithusa to Merlin, then back again, a slow smile spreading across his face, and when Merlin glances up at Kilgharrah, he’s watching all three of them with a smile that might just be fond. 

The movement distracts Arthur, and when he looks up as well, some of the fear returns. Merlin releases his hand and steps back a little. 

"And this is Kilgharrah."

"I know who he is." There’s a harsh edge to Arthur’s voice that makes Merlin wince, although this was probably inevitable.

"And I know you, King Arthur, son of Uther." Kilgharrah’s voice is just as cold as Arthur’s. "Just as I knew your father."

"I know that you killed many of my people."

"And your father killed all my kin, dragon and dragonlord alike."

Deciding that he needs to intervene because this is an argument that could go on all night, Merlin steps between them, his back to Arthur.

"Kilgharrah!" He rarely has to use this voice of command now, and the depth of it seems to reverberate all around them, shocking them all into silence. Taking a deep breath, Merlin makes sure Kilgharrah’s attention is on him before saying, "Arthur is my king. You will address him with the same respect you show me."

The dragon’s head lifts a little, as though Merlin has asked him to do something deeply distasteful to him. From his height, he fixes his gaze on a point behind Merlin, no doubt where Arthur is still standing. Merlin has no way of knowing what passes between them, only that Kilgharrah’s gaze eventually sweeps back to him.

"As you wish, Merlin." The bow is not unlike the one Kilgharrah gave him the first time Merlin exercised his authority as a dragonlord, and it’s enough to satisfy him for now.

When he turns around, he sees that Arthur still has his hand on Aithusa’s head, just resting it there as he might on the neck of his horse or on the back of a favourite hunting dog. The sight sends a jolt of hope through him, and it’s all he can do to keep a stupid grin off his face again.

"Arthur?" he says, quite proud of himself that his voice is steady.

As if realising where his hand is for the first time, Arthur lifts it quickly, crossing his arms over his chest as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. The embarrassment passes as he looks up at Kilgharrah, becoming something altogether more uncomfortable.

"I know what my father did to the dragons," he says, and hesitates, looking over at Merlin. "And the dragonlords." They look at each other, and Merlin realises he is holding his breath. Even if Arthur doesn't realise it, he always sounds like a king. "I cannot take back what he has done, and I cannot forget what happened when you were given your freedom." Arthur holds Merlin’s gaze, still and steady, before looking back up. "But I can say that if you are no danger to us any more, then I will make sure that we are no danger to you."

Kilgharrah turns his head, considering. Tentatively, Merlin opens up his senses a little, trying to gauge what the dragon is thinking, only to have one huge eye fix on him, perhaps a little reproachfully for his prying. 

"There is too much blood between us to be friends, Arthur Pendragon," Kilgharrah says at last. "But that does not mean there is no future in Albion for the dragons. Tread wisely, and perhaps there will be peace between us." 

With absolutely no sense of ceremony or the importance of what is being said, Aithusa chooses that moment to press her nose against Arthur’s back, obviously displeased at being ignored. It’s a hard enough bump to almost knock him over, and it forces a laugh out of Arthur, who turns to her, lifting his hands in mock surrender. 

As he drops his hands to pet her again, he looks over at Kilgharrah and Merlin. "Perhaps there will be peace," he says. "And I will speak on your behalf to whoever I can. But as much as I appreciate Merlin’s efforts, the people of Camelot deserve better than an overthrown king."

"You are king, Arthur. And your people are waiting for you."

"Please, Merlin, enough."

Feeling Kilgharrah stir, Merlin flicks his hand, just a little, trying to send out the sense _wait_ and _trust me_ and _I know what I’m doing._ Which he really hopes he does.

"In the days of the old religion," Merlin says, trying not to mind the way Arthur flinches, "magic was part of the kingdom. It was as much under the king's authority as the rest of his people. The druids, the high priestesses, the dragonlords, all of them were subject to his rule."

"The days of the old religion are long gone, Merlin."

"I'm still here. So are the dragons." They hadn't discussed this before, but Merlin can feel the approval from Kilgharrah, and he knows this is the right thing to do. "Only the king had the right to command them."

"I thought that was your job"

"You are my king, Arthur. That gives you the right."

"Merlin, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then let me show you." Merlin steps close to him, hearing Kilgharrah moving away to give them a little more space. As far as Merlin knows, there is nothing special about this place, no sacred circles or ancient groves, but from the power flowing though him, into the earth and rising up again, he thinks that might change after tonight. 

His hand is shaking a little as he reaches out and puts it over Arthur's on Aithusa's head, and his voice catches in his throat as he says, "When Aithusa was born, Kilgharrah told me that a white dragon was a good omen for the future of Albion. I still believe that, Arthur, but she cannot bring that about on her own." He looks up, smiling even as Arthur frowns at him. "And nor can I."

He doesn't need words for this magic, and he's not even sure how he would describe it anyway. His awareness of the dragons is as natural to him as breathing, and like breathing, most of the time he doesn't even think about it. Now though, they are both shining in his mind as bright as the sun. No, not the sun. Stars, turning in the sky, and he is moving with them, around a fixed point that is his destiny and that none of them can change.

Afterwards, he'll always wonder what Arthur feels in this moment. Merlin’s destiny has always been a strange mix of a weight bearing down on him and a goal that he has a constant desire to meet. But to realise it like this, with the smell of sulphur in the air and the warmth of the dragons surrounding them? From the way Arthur’s eyes close and his head drops, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he draws in deep breaths, Merlin can only assume it’s even more overwhelming. 

He holds it for a moment, drawing the power into himself, then letting it flow outwards again, so that the four of them are joined for a moment, warm and safe under the blanket of his magic. Lifting his hand, he looks up at Kilgharrah.

 _"ᾗ πιθησεις?"_ _Will you obey?_

 _"πιθησώ."_ It’s rare for Kilgharrah to speak in dragon-tongue, but Merlin knows this cannot be done any other way. The oath will not be deep enough in any other language.

He turns to Aithusa, repeating the question. Her consent is not in question - Merlin can already feel her regard for Arthur and wonders briefly if he should be jealous - and all he is expecting is a sense of approval or acceptance from her. 

Instead, she lifts her head and in a hissing, uncertain voice says, _"πιθησώ."_

Merlin stares at her, his mouth open in surprise. There’s an amused, approving sense washing off of Kilgharrah that has just a hint of smugness, as though he’d known all along that she’d save something so important for a moment like this. Still too stunned to be annoyed, Merlin closes his mouth, swallows, then looks at Arthur, who is watching them all with something that might be confusion, although there is a smile tugging at his mouth.

Despite himself, because this is supposed to be a solemn, serious ceremony and he probably shouldn’t laugh in the middle of it, Merlin smiles back. 

"You have their fealty, my Lord," he says. "The oath is unbreakable."

It should be funny, the way Arthur stares at Merlin, face blank as though he’s forgotten how to think, let alone breathe. Then, like a cloud passing over the moon, his eyes grow guarded and wary. "I don’t-"

"You are." Releasing the magic and Arthur’s hand, Merlin steps back a little. "This wouldn’t have worked otherwise. Arthur, if you don’t start believing in yourself, then Morgana will remain on the throne of Camelot. I know you don’t want that. The people don’t want that. They want their king."

Aithusa hisses again, a sound like a long breath being let out at last. When she speaks, it’s still uncertain, as though she’s not entirely sure she’s doing it quite right, but the word that comes out of her mouth makes Merlin’s smile even broader.

 _"Βασιλευς,"_ she says slowly, as though tasting it, trying it out on her tongue to see if she likes it or not. She must find her answer because her ears are twitching as she steps back, looking up at Arthur. _"Βασιλευς."_

Arthur gives Merlin a puzzled glance. "What does that mean?"

"King," Merlin supplies. "It means king, Arthur."


	5. Sword

  
_To be nobody-but-yourself -- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting._  
e.e.cummings

The others are not best pleased at being woken in the middle of the night only to be told that, despite what they’d agreed, they need to reach the forest of Essetir by dawn. Tristan shifts from the biting sarcasm of the last few days to a sullen silence, displeasure radiating off him in waves. He strides on ahead, sure-footed even in the dark, leaving the rest of them to trail behind. Merlin notices that Isolde and Gwen have fallen into step easily, occasionally talking in low voices and although the night is quiet, he cannot hear what they are saying.

They fall silent as they make their way down the ridge, the steep path still treacherous, even when lit by one of Merlin’s floating lights.

"There’d better be a damn good reason for risking our necks like this," Tristan growls at Merlin as he clambers over the last boulder. 

"We have to be in the forest by dawn," Merlin says calmly, refusing to be riled. "Aithusa is watching out for us, so as long as no one falls into any streams or trips over any rocks, we’ll be fine."

"In that case, Merlin," Arthur says, jumping from the top of the boulder to drop down beside him, "I’d say you were in more danger than the rest of us. Anyone who can trip over his own feet in the middle of an empty corridor..." 

"If someone didn't demand that all his armour be brought up to him for inspection every night..."

"Gentlemen," Isolde interrupts. "Shouldn’t we keep moving? We’ve got a long way to go before dawn." In the faint moonlight, her large eyes are sparkling with what Merlin thinks might be amusement.

Tristan glares, then sets off at a punishing pace that they all have to hurry to keep up with. This close to the foot of the ridge, the ground is still covered with large stones and expanses of flat, slippery rock. In his hurry, Merlin half-loses his balance, bumping into Arthur who grabs him by the collar and sets him back on his feet. He gives Merlin a _see what I mean_ look, then shoves him forwards. 

"Looks like I’d better keep you where I can see you, make sure you don’t vanish into a crevasse," he says, and it’s so much like his old self that Merlin has to stifle a laugh. 

They make it onto the plain without further incident, and Tristan picks out a path close to the river where a line of thin saplings give them at least some cover. It’s not exactly safe, but it feels better than just walking straight across the middle of open ground, for all that Merlin trusts Aithusa’s senses and instincts much more than his own. At their current pace, they should reach the edge of the forest by dawn.

As they settle into the walk, Arthur comes up beside him, his shoulder bumping Merlin’s.

"So," he says, probably trying for casual but only really managing slightly annoyed, "are you going to tell me what’s so important that we have to do it at first light?"

"Nope." Merlin is keeping half his attention on the path and half on the others to make sure he doesn’t fall too far behind. He hasn’t had much sleep in the last few days, and even less food, and he knows that he’s functioning mostly on magic and sheer nervous energy right now. It will give out at some point; he just hopes he’s near a soft surface when it does. 

"I thought I was your king?" Arthur elbows him gently, enough to make Merlin half-stumble before he catches himself. 

"Yes, my lord," he says, hoping he made it sound sufficiently insubordinate. He must have succeeded because Arthur elbows him again.

"You know, I can still change my mind about the whole execution thing."

Merlin has to stop then, staring at him. It’s that or fall over his own feet in sheer surprise. Not because he thinks Arthur’s serious; he knows he’s not and that’s the point. Arthur just made a joke. A real, honest-to-goodness joke about Merlin’s magic. He shakes his head when Arthur, seeming to realise he’s walked on his own for a few paces, stops and turns to look at him.

"Merlin?"

"Nothing," he says, making himself lift his feet and start walking again. "Nothing." They walk in silence for a while, Arthur with that air about him that tells Merlin he’s turning something over in his mind, and Merlin trying to wipe the stupid grin off his face that he knows must make him look like a complete idiot. 

They’ve covered about half the distance, and the pre-dawn light is creeping over the ridge behind them when Arthur tries again. 

"You know, if you’re expecting me to do anything when we get to wherever it is, I’d appreciate some warning."

"You’ll know what to do," Merlin tells him distractedly, trying to reach out ahead, see if his subtle prompting from last night worked.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Merlin jerks to a stop before he can walk into Arthur, who’s standing on the middle of the path right in front of him.

"Yes, er, sorry, what?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I said, I’ll know what to do if you tell me what’s going on."

Over Arthur’s shoulder, Merlin can see that the others have stopped as well, taking the chance to refill their water skins and rest for a moment. Further on, he can see the first line of trees that marks the forest, and he knows that if he just stretched his magic a little, he'll be able to see beyond them, into the forest itself.

"Merlin!" Looming into his vision, Arthur comes close enough that Merlin can see the dark circles under his eyes, the weariness at the corners of his mouth. Lines crease there as his face twists into something closer to concern. "Are you alright?"

How can he explain to Arthur that he's better than fine, that he's terrified this is all going to go wrong and sure that it won't, and that if even if it works, there's still the Southrons and Camelot and Morgana to come, and beyond that? He has no idea, and even that is almost exhilarating. It’s too much to think about all at once.

"I'm fine," he says, grinning again and hoping that will satisfy Arthur for now. "Come on, we have to keep moving."

He forces the pace a little, ignoring the muttered complaints from Tristan and Isolde’s curious looks. He has to get this right, and that means being in the right place at the right time for once. He’s always had a terrible sense of timing, which is why Arthur's breakfast is usually twenty minutes early or stone cold because it's so late. Just for once, he’d like something to go right, so he keeps his eyes fixed on the forest, trying to calculate distances and times. 

When he judges they’re about the right distance out from the forest, he turns to Arthur and says, "You know I said that I thought anyone who escaped Camelot would be in the forest?" 

"Yes," Arthur says slowly, obviously waiting for some kind of catch.

"Well, they’re waiting for us now. It took a bit of doing, but I, er, _suggested_ to them that they should all meet us."

"Suggested?"

Merlin screws up his face, trying to think of a way to say this that doesn’t sound either slightly mad or rather creepy. "In their dreams."

"What?" The shout is loud enough that all three of the others turn to look, Gwen with a worried crease down the middle of her forehead. Merlin raises his hand to reassure them and keeps walking as he speaks.

"There's something you have to do, and they all need to see it." They're close now, and should reach the clearing by the time the sun clears the ridge behind them. "You need to claim your sword."

"I know it's been a busy few days, Merlin, but I actually already have my sword," Arthur says, putting his hand on the hilt, "and unless you particularly want to feel the flat side of it across-"

"Not that sword. That's just _a_ sword. This one is _your_ sword. It's been waiting for you for a long time."

There's a considering silence from Arthur, then he says, "Okay, I'll bite. Why exactly is this sword waiting for me in the middle of a forest?"

"I had to put it somewhere safe."

"You did?"

Merlin glances over. "It's your sword, Arthur. It was forged in a dragon's breath. No one else must have it."

That turns Arthur's skeptical look into something more cautious. "A dragon's breath," he says thoughtfully. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing can stand against it. Nothing human and nothing magic. In the wrong hands, it has terrible power."

"Wait." Arthur puts out a hand to stop him. "And in my hands?"

"Only the true king can wield it, Arthur. I made sure of that."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll see." Merlin starts to walk again, speeding up a little. "You just have to believe in yourself. If you are not the rightful king, the sword will not yield to you." He risks reaching out a little, smiling when he picks up the other presences in the forest, the people who have already gathered as they were told. "Your people are waiting for you, and all you have to do is pick up the sword."

"Just pick up the sword," Arthur echoes, sounding deeply unconvinced. "Assuming no one else has done so already."

"They can't," Merlin says, a little slowly, not really caring if he sounds like he's talking to someone hard of thinking. "I told you, only the true king can wield it."

Understanding flares on Arthur's face. "You enchanted it." 

"Of course I did. I'm not a complete idiot." 

"Remains to be seen. So what exactly did you do to this all-powerful sword?" 

"You’ll see."

"For someone who wants me to trust him, you're being damned cryptic about this whole thing," Arthur grumbles.

"You'll understand when you get there," Merlin says firmly. "And everyone needs to see it." For once, he's judged things right, reaching the edge of the tree line before Arthur can raise another objection. He stops, looking at Arthur and holding out his hand. "The sword is in a clearing about two hundred paces straight ahead. Give me that sword. You won’t be needing it any more."

Arthur stares at him for a long moment, as though trying to find any trick or lie in Merlin’s eyes. For his part, Merlin doesn’t move, keeping his hands outstretched and letting the certainty that he felt last night show in his face, hoping Arthur can see it. 

Whether it’s that, or whether Arthur is simply too tired to argue, Merlin doesn’t know. What matters is that he pulls his sword free and places it across Merlin’s hands.

"You’d better be right about this," he says, then turns and walks into the forest.

~

There’s still a chill in the early morning air, but the sun is bright, even filtered through the thick branches of the trees around them, promising warmth for the day to come. After the days of cloud and drizzle they’ve been having, it’s a welcome relief and vaguely, Merlin wonders if he’s responsible somehow. Certainly his magic feels close to the surface, as comfortable against his skin as a warm cloak in the depths of winter, and he thinks that right about now, there isn’t much he couldn’t do. Still, he’s never actually changed the weather without meaning to, he doesn’t think. 

As they get nearer to the clearing, he spreads the cloak of his senses outwards, feeling the life that fills the forest around him, every tree and animal a pinprick of light and up ahead, all the people of Camelot. He’d felt it when the first of them found the sword, the gentle push against his magic as the braver amongst them tried their strength. Somewhere in the distance, he can feel Aithusa as well, nervous to be close to so many people, but drawn to Arthur like a moth to a flame. It’s as if she’d known, from the moment they first met, that he would bind their lives to Arthur so closely, and there’s a slight ache in Merlin’s heart, because she won’t ever be just his again.

 

_"I thought the power was over any dragon," he said. The night was stormy and Kilgharrah had consented to carry them to a more sheltered spot in the lee of a hill some distance from Camelot. Even so, the wind pulled at Merlin’s hair and Aithusa was cradled against his chest for warmth._

_"It is, but there will always be a stronger bond with one that you have called into life yourself," Kilgharrah said, apparently untroubled by the weather. "And it has been too long for me. The dragonlords were already fading long before Uther’s purge."  
It wasn’t often that he could persuade Kilgharrah to talk of these times, and Merlin had learned that the best way to hear the story was to just listen without asking too many questions._

_"The land was falling into chaos," Kilgharrah said. There was such sadness in his voice that Merlin reached out instinctively, brushing his mind against the dragon’s. "Uther was thought to be a strong leader, one who could unite the people and magic again at last. By the time he took Camelot, the people of the old religion were fighting amongst themselves in civil war that no one could see an end to. And then his wife was taken from him, and he used that war against them, aligning his purges with whichever group was strongest at the time, only to turn on them afterwards and cut them down. He did us a great wrong, but we allowed it."_

_"I’m sorry." It wasn’t enough, but Merlin didn’t know what else to say._

_"That is why Arthur brings us such hope, Merlin. This time, we may indeed have a king who can bring peace to the land without putting its people to the sword. And why your own power is so important in protecting him. One day, he must understand that it is only with the land and the magic together that the balance can be restored."_

 

He’s only a few paces behind Arthur, with Gwen at his side and Tristan and Isolde somewhere further back, but he feels it the moment Arthur steps over the threshold of the glade, as well as hearing a sharp intake of breath.   
There are people everywhere. They’re crowding around the sword, clustered in chattering groups around it, leaning on the trees that line the edge of the hollow, all of them watching and waiting. A murmur ripples through them as Arthur takes his first, cautious steps down towards the stone, the crowd parting before him. 

Merlin puts down Arthur’s old sword, offering Gwen his hand as they follow Arthur down, the soft earth crumbling under their feet a little. She doesn’t let go as they reach solid ground, slipping her fingers through his and holding on tight.  
Arthur is standing, looking at the sword, running his fingers over the finely etched runes. He seems entranced, unable to take his eyes from the blade as he circles it, as though he’s suddenly forgotten all the people in the clearing with him. Right now, it’s just him and the sword and his destiny. 

Gently, Merlin leads Gwen over to stand with the people of Camelot, moving carefully through the crowd until they are next to Percival, who grins down at them. Next to him, Leon is watching Arthur with an expression of such hope that it makes something in Merlin’s chest ache. It’s probably a bad idea, but just for a moment, he opens up his senses a little more than usual, letting himself be caught up in all the emotions swirling around him. It’s intoxicating, like the first cup of wine on a feast day, a welcome embrace and a promise for the future. He thinks he could drown in it without regret, swamped by the love he feels from these people for their king.

He comes back to himself with a twinge of regret, focusing his eyes on Arthur who is now standing in front of the sword, looking up at his people. His gaze takes in all of them, acknowledging every expectant look before coming to rest on Merlin.   
Later, Merlin isn’t entirely sure that he really sees the moment itself, he’s so distracted by everything else he can feel. At the edges of his mind are Aithusa and Kilgharrah, also drawn by the power of this place, straining their own senses to see what is happening. Beside him, Gwen’s hand squeezes his almost painfully tight, anticipation and joy rolling off her in waves. He’ll hear the story from her and Leon and Percival and the stable master and one of the laundry maids and Arthur himself. It will come to him from a hundred different viewpoints, each filtered through different eyes and minds, and all of it seen through the lens of the magic in the air. He will take the myriad accounts and weave them together and even then, he knows won’t see it all.  
His magic feels free and calm, reaching out of its own accord to wrap around this little clearing, and around the man at its centre, so close to him that for a moment, Merlin cannot tell what he is seeing with his own eyes and what-

_-and the way the sunlight catches the runes carved into the blade, glinting from the crossguard as Arthur puts his hand on the hilt. It’s warm where others have tried to pull it free, and he thinks he can hear the echoes of their laughter at each other for attempting such an impossible task.  
It’s silent in the clearing now, all eyes on him as he flexes his fingers into a more comfortable position. He doesn’t know why, he just knows that this is what he’s supposed to do, this is how the sword wants to be held, this is how it will come free. His grip tightens and he closes his eyes, not sure yet if he trusts himself, but knowing he trusts the people around him, trusts the way they are watching him, expectant and so hopeful that he knows he cannot disappoint them. Taking a deep breath, he starts to pull-_

With his eyes on Arthur’s face and nothing else, Merlin feels as much as sees the moment the sword is lifted into the air, the ringing sound of metal sliding against stone filling the whole forest like the peal of a new-forged bell. 

"It is done," he whispers, and the weight of it settles onto him, bathing him with magic warmer than the sun. Perhaps it’s just his imagination, but even the ground beneath him seems to reverberate with the sound of the sword in Arthur’s hand, shifting and settling into its rightful place at last. The power of it is so resonant that he wonders if Morgana hears it in Camelot, and what she will make of it. He doesn’t think anyone with magic can fail to feel it, and he opens himself to it fully, letting it echo through him more strongly before sending it out into the world again. Everyone should know this.

And in the distance, he thinks he hears a rumbling call, the flap of huge wings into the sky and Kilgharrah’s voice echoing in his mind.

_"It is done."_

~

After that, it feels like everything is happening at once, with no chance for Merlin to catch his breath between running around finding people for Arthur, or bringing messages to Arthur from various people, or trying to help the Steward who doesn’t seem to have noticed or maybe just doesn’t care that this is a forest encampment not a castle, or trying to keep track of Kilgharrah and Aithusa who are waiting a little way off, their excitement rippling through him and making him a little twitchy. People keep shaking his hand or slapping him on the back, pulling him aside to re-live the moment time and time again. It’s as if they’re rehearsing for the future, so that when their children ask them about this day, they’ll already have a well-crafted story to tell them.

He manages to snatch up a few hot cakes and a fresh skin of water, ducking behind a tree to eat and catch his breath. He’s barely finished the first cake when he hears determined footsteps coming in his direction, not from the camp, but from the forest beyond. Looking up, he groans and wonders if it’s too late to climb the tree to escape.

Judging by the way Tristan is bearing down on him like a man on a mission, he figures it probably is and breaks the second cake in half to cool it. If he’s going to be glared at, it might as well be on a full stomach.

"You’re a hard man to find," Isolde says. "Seems like more people are joining the camp every hour."

"There’ll be no game left in the forest at this rate." There’s no real bite to Tristan’s words, and the look on his face is more thoughtful than actually annoyed.

"I’m sure you’ll manage once we’re gone," Merlin says, nearly burning his tongue as he pops half the cake into his mouth, and so almost missing the look that passes between the other two.

"When will that be?" Tristan asks.

Merlin shrugs. "Tomorrow, I think. Arthur won’t want to wait any longer, and we can’t hide this many people in the forest for long. Better to fight Morgana on our terms than hers."

Shifting a little, Tristan looks past Merlin at the camp. "They do realise that she has a whole army at her disposal, don’t they?"

"And they know that it’s either fight, flee or live under Morgana’s rule." Merlin shrugs again. "I know which I’d do."

"He’ll get them all killed." Tristan says. "They’d follow him anywhere, do anything he says, and they’re going to die just so he can put a crown on his head again."

"Is that really what you think? You saw them this morning."

"I saw a really impressive piece of sleight of hand, and I’m dying to know how you did it." It’s a challenge that Merlin won’t rise to.

"Arthur is the rightful king of Camelot, and if it comes down to a choice between fighting for something they believe in or slinking away into the shadows?" Merlin raises an eyebrow, throwing the challenge back. "They’ve made their choice."

Whatever Tristan was going to say in reply is lost when someone calls Merlin’s name from the camp behind him. There’s a real urgency to it, so he throws the remaining cake to Isolde who catches it deftly.

"I’m here, Gwen. What is it?"

"Merlin, you have to come now." She waits for him to come to her, then grabs his hand, dragging him across the camp at a run. "It’s Arthur."

~

As it turns out, it’s not, in fact, Arthur. At least not in any of the ways Merlin fears as he and Gwen tear through the camp, dodging round fires and jumping over blankets that have already been spread out on the ground. Beyond the last makeshift tent, they nearly trip over the equally makeshift armoury that’s been set up right on the edge of the camp, one of the guardsmen counting swords and spears and knives under a knight’s watchful eye. Beyond the surprisingly large heaps of weapons, Merlin can see red cloaks, swirling among the brown and green of the trees. 

Then he hears the shouts and cries, and he almost stumbles, Gwen pulling him back to his feet at the last second. As they emerge into the clearing, Merlin sees what is happening for the first time, then suddenly there is a lot more shouting and he realises belatedly much of it is coming from him. His world swirls in white panic for a moment, and when he comes back to himself, he’s crossed the clearing and is standing with his hands outstretched, shouting at the knights who have their swords drawn and pointed at him.

No, not at him. At Aithusa.

Behind the wall of red cloaks and chainmail, Merlin sees Arthur, his way barred by two knights who probably think they’re protecting their king from a dangerous beast. The fact that Aithusa is crouched back on her haunches, her head lowered and tail wrapped around herself, looking for all the world like a cowed dog, doesn’t seem to matter to them. Merlin isn’t even sure what he’s saying any more, just trying to get the knights to back off enough that he can think, can explain to them that she isn’t a danger to them or Arthur. He’s reaching out with more than just his arms, he knows, Aithusa’s distress echoing through him and outwards, searching for any help they can get.

Leon and Percival, probably drawn by the noise, come running up, taking in the situation at a glance. Percival, bless him, makes straight for Merlin, while Leon begins to stride over to the knights holding Arthur back, his face full of fury. It all happens too quickly for Merlin to really think it through, instincts kicking in because Aithusa is his to protect, and she is frightened and starting to wail in his mind. As Percival comes over, cutting through the sea of red like a boat on a lake, Merlin turns to say something to him, to try to explain.

His movement must leave enough of an opening that one of the knights sees an opportunity and starts to lunge forwards, sword outstretched. Without even thinking, Merlin flings out a hand, barely able to restrain the power that wants to rip through the clearing. He holds it back enough that he catches the man’s sword instead, tearing it from his hand and flinging it to stick, point first, into the nearest tree. 

Everyone takes a step backwards, and the few men who haven't drawn their swords do so now, a whisper running through the group.

_"Sorcery."_

Instinctively, Merlin looks for Arthur, finding him still behind the wall of red that now seems even stronger around him. He’s obviously been holding himself back, not wanting to hurt the men who are only trying to protect him, and there’s frustration in his eyes. Behind Merlin, Aithusa cries out, loud for the first time and making the men who had been closing in take half a step away again. 

Percival uses the slight hesitation to draw his own sword, stepping forwards and in front of Merlin.

"You’re going to have to come through me first," he says, and Merlin’s knees nearly give way with relief. He reaches behind him, placing a hand on Aithusa’s head and trying to soothe her. Then something else pushes into his awareness and this time when he looks over, he sees Arthur’s eyes widen to almost comical proportions in surprise. 

Merlin has to turn very, very slowly, because otherwise his knees really are going to give way. There’s a fierce wind whipping through the clearing now, lifting leaves and dragging them upwards in crazy spirals, and although he can see some of the knights pointing at him, he knows he’s not the one doing it. 

Apparently losing patience at last, Arthur elbows one of the knights in front of him in the nose, then rams his shoulder into the other, pushing past them to cross to Merlin, fighting the wind all the way. Percival moves to let him past, and Arthur grabs Merlin by the shoulder, yanking him close to speak right into his ear.

"He certainly knows how to make an entrance."

Giving him a helpless shrug, Merlin lifts a hand to protect his face from the dust and twigs that are flying around the clearing now, just as Kilgharrah lands heavily about thirty feet away. There are a couple of slim trees between him and then, which he pushes aside with one huge, clawed foot before stepping over them and stopping just ten feet from Arthur.

There is complete silence as everyone, even Merlin, just stares up at Kilgharrah. He looms over all of them, folding his wings and looking down his nose at Arthur. Merlin knows well that he could have landed without nearly so much disturbance or drama, but that obviously wasn’t the idea. 

Kilgharrah and Arthur look at each other for a long time, long enough that Merlin hears some of the knights muttering amongst themselves, and he wonders how long it will be until one of them overcomes his fear. His fingers twitching, he wonders if he could cast some kind of shield over Arthur, Aithusa and himself. Kilgharrah’s hide is tough enough to handle most of what the knights could throw at him, and Merlin’s priority has to be Aithusa, still pressed low to the ground as though a white dragon could be anything but conspicuous against the dark forest floor.

Before he is forced to find out, Kilgharrah draws himself up, back straight and head lifted high, eyes still fixed on Arthur. Then, very slowly, he bows. It’s not just a simple inclination of the head, either. Kilgharrah actually bends one of his knees, bringing his head down so low that it almost touches the ground. It’s a graceful gesture from such a huge beast, unmistakable from any distance. 

Relief sweeps through Merlin, and he realises he’s grinning widely, still with one hand on Aithusa’s flank. When he stretches out his mind to Kilgharrah, just a little, he gets a sense of slightly smug amusement, and he could swear that there’s a hint of a smirk pulling at the edge of the dragon’s mouth. 

" _I trust this will help,_ " Kilgharrah says, straight into Merlin’s mind and making him jump. " _They do seem very frightened._ " 

It’s all Merlin can do not to laugh at that, settling instead for letting Kilgharrah’s amusement into his mind more fully, feeling Aithusa cautiously rising from her defensive crouch, emboldened by Kilgharrah’s presence.  
Finally, Arthur turns back to the rest of them, a smile on his own face as well, broad and confident.

"Gentlemen," he says, strolling back towards the knights as though he hasn’t a care in the world, "let me introduce you to our new allies."

~

"I still can’t believe you said that."

Arthur grins over at Merlin, some of the swagger still in the set of his shoulders although it’s been a few hours and they’re now sitting by one of the larger campfires, catching up on dinner and sharing a flagon of ale. 

"You have to admit, it was pretty impressive."

Shaking his head, Merlin snags the flagon again, taking a long swig before passing it back. "Anyone would think you were the dragonlord around here."

"Hey, you’re the one you gave me their fealty," Arthur says, spreading his hands in mock-innocence. "I was just telling the truth."

"You were showing off."

"Maybe a little." Looking sidelong at him, Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of which, you weren’t exactly helping."

"What was I supposed to do, let him stab her?" 

"I had it under control."

"Oh, yes, I could tell that from the way you were being restrained by your own knights."

"They were scared!"

"So was I!" 

They glare at each other, but Merlin cracks first, ducking his head and helping himself to more stew from the pot that they’re sharing. "Aithusa was terrified," he says, blowing on a spoonful. 

"I know." Arthur sighs, plucking the bowl from Merlin’s hand before he can protest. "I didn’t mean for it to happen that way."

Merlin knows he doesn’t just mean the dragon. While Percival leapt to his defence at once, most of the rest of the knights have been avoiding him for the last few hours, making sure that whenever he arrived at a campfire, they conveniently needed to be elsewhere. Rumours always spread fast in Camelot, and out here, he’s sure most people know what he is now. The fact that Arthur is calmly sitting with him, stealing his food and sharing a flagon of ale may help, and he’s sure Arthur knows that as well.  
Still, he’s been on edge for hours, having to put up with people’s stares, Aithusa’s lingering fear and Kilgharrah’s wry amusement, as well as the constant worry that someone’s going to decide that the law is still the law and try to chop his head off when he’s not expecting it. He can’t stay glued to Arthur’s side forever, and while Gwen and Percival keep giving him encouraging smiles, even they are starting to wear his nerves down. 

The day has turned out sunny, but still cold, and keeping his face to the warmth of the fire, Merlin says, "Would you have told them at all?"

Arthur sucks in a breath. "Yes," he says at once, almost too quickly. He seems to realise that, because he hesitates before going on, "But not until later, after we were back in Camelot, and I could do so without breaking my own laws."

"How would you do that?"

That earns him a shove to the shoulder, hard enough almost to knock him off the log he’s perched on. "I’m the king, you idiot. I can change the laws."

"For me?" It’s a strange thought, somehow. When he’s thought about bringing magic back to Camelot, he’s always thought about it in the abstract, as though it was something he could do without really being involved. It would be personal only in that he’d finally be able to tell Arthur who he really was. Strangely, he’d hadn’t really thought it would be this personal, that Arthur would make the change because of him directly and openly, without Merlin having to bring other proofs of the good magic can do.   
"Well, and the dragons, of course." Arthur shifts a little, since clearly admitting he might do anything nice for Merlin is a source of deep embarrassment to him. "And I’m assuming there are other sorcerers in Camelot, ones who don’t want to kill me?"

"Only the ones who haven’t met you," Merlin says, earning himself another shove, but when he looks over, Arthur is smiling, a little ruefully. 

"It makes things easier, though," he says, growing serious again. "Some of the men were asking me what we were going to do about Morgana. Now, I have an answer for them." He frowns as though realising that he hasn’t actually spoken to Merlin about this yet. "I do have an answer for them, don’t I?"

Merlin is leaning close enough to the fire that the heat is stinging his eyes, searing across his lips and cheeks. He'd known it would come to this, ever since he told Arthur about his magic. He also knows it's the only chance Camelot has. 

When he leans back, he has to run his hands over his face to ease the tingling, buying him another few seconds. Arthur is still watching him closely, expectantly.

"You're not just one of my knights, Merlin. I don't even really know what you can do, not everything. But if you have anything that can help us-"

"Leave her to me," Merlin says, reaching down to cup his hands around the cool surface of the flagon. "She's my responsibility."

"What do you need?"

It's the sort of question Arthur would as any of his men about to embark on a dangerous mission, and Merlin wishes he had a better answer.

"There's nothing you can do," he says, lifting his now-cold hands to his face, wincing at the sudden, welcome cold. Then he frowns. "Actually, there is. If I use magic to get to Morgana, she'll sense it, she'll know we're coming."

"You want to take her by surprise."

"I have no idea how powerful she is." He carefully doesn't add that he has no idea how powerful he is, not like this. Arthur doesn't need to know that right now. "I'll need a way to the throne room that doesn't need me to use my magic."

"I can do that."

"You'll need help." 

Both Arthur and Merlin look up as Tristan and Isolde approach, a slightly resigned look on Tristan’s face, as though he’s decided he’s going to do this, regardless of what he actually thinks.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you offering?"

When Tristan doesn’t say anything, Isolde nudges him a little with her elbow. "We are," she says. "If you’ll have us."

"I don’t exactly have the luxury of turning down good swords, but can I ask why?" Leaning back on his hands, Arthur looks up at them, and although he’s sitting while they stand, there’s no doubt in Merlin’s mind who’s in charge of this conversation.

Under another expectant look from Isolde, Tristan sighs, looking at the fire rather than Arthur as he speaks. "You’re not what I expected, if I’m honest. All these people, _your_ people, they’re going to go up against impossible odds tomorrow, just because you’ve told them it can be done. And the strangest thing is, I actually believe you." He looks up, head still lowered but eyes intent on Arthur. "I’m not interested in other men’s battles, the squabbles of petty kings, but what you’re trying to do here, what they all say about you..." He trails off, looking at Isolde for help.

"What he’s trying to say is," she puts in, laying a hand on his arm, "that we think you might just be worth fighting for. That maybe we’ve finally found something worth the risk."

"Which isn’t to say we don’t have our eyes on a nice patch of land just inside your eastern border," Tristan adds with a sort of twisted smile that Arthur returns.

"We’ll have to see about that," he says, which isn’t a no, and Tristan seems to know that. There’s no mocking in Arthur’s tone, no suggestion that he is going to make a few digs at Tristan for his change of heart. "I’m grateful for what you did for us that first night," he says slowly. "And although we didn’t exactly make firm friends, having the security of your swords on our journey was much appreciated." He looks up. "You know that you are under no obligation to me, in any way."

"We know." It’s Isolde who reaches out and takes Tristan’s hand, her face still solemn and serious. "Sometimes you just have to choose to do the right thing."

Tristan gives a snort of laughter at the look on Arthur’s face at that, and shrugs, as though unable to think of what else to say. "However uncharacteristic that might be."

~

When they are gone, Arthur raises an eyebrow at Merlin. "Please tell me you didn't..."

"Nope, nothing to do with me," Merlin assures him, grinning. "Apparently some people are fooled into thinking you're just naturally charming."

"But not you?"

"I know you too well." Still smiling, mostly to himself now, Merlin stretches and squints at the fire. "It's running low. We'll need more wood for overnight."

He leaves Arthur staring into the fire, heading over to where someone has made a communal woodpile, helping himself to some of the wetter pieces. It seems fairer, since he can coax a fire out of them when others can't. Then he circles back around to where he can see Arthur still sitting on his fallen log, eyes fixed on the jumping flames in front of him. 

It's the edge of dusk, the sky just turning from blue to grey, and in the deepening shadows, Merlin doesn't see the other person by the fire until he's nearly back, just about able to duck behind a nearby tree before he's spotted.

"After everything..."

"Arthur." Gwen is keeping her voice low, but there’s no mistaking the intensity in it. "You have to know this. Because I missed you so much and I think you miss me too."

"Gwen, we’ve had this conversation," Arthur says, his voice tight. "I can’t help how I feel about you, but I don’t think I can do this. I don’t know how." There’s so much confusion in Arthur’s voice, layered over the hurt and anger, that he sounds utterly lost. 

"I don’t know either." Gwen’s voice catches, and she hesitates before going on, "And if you want me to go away again when all of this is done, then I will."

"I don’t want that."

Merlin’s head thumps back against the tree so hard that he thinks surely Arthur and Gwen must have heard it. They are silent for a long moment, and Merlin tries to breathe quietly, not wanting to disturb them, and not able to stop himself hoping.   
It’s Gwen who breaks the silence, speaking softly this time. "I don’t know what I can do to make you believe me, but you have to listen. Because tomorrow-" she breaks off and Merlin finds that his own breathing is shallow, trying to keep as quiet as he can. "Tomorrow, anything could happen," Gwen says carefully. "And I need you to know that no matter what happened between us, and whatever happens in the future, I have never stopped loving you. And I never will."

There's a brief silence, then Merlin hears footsteps moving away from the fire. He leans around the tree a little, seeing Arthur sitting there alone now, face a hard mask in its flickering light. Without really thinking about it, Merlin lays his armful of wood down on the ground, making a mental note to come back for it later, then heads into the darkening forest, reaching out with all his senses until he finds what he's looking for. Who he's looking for.

Kilgharrah is a dark shape even in the darkness, lying in the shadows of a deep hollow, Aithusa curled up against his side. Both of them lift their heads at Merlin's approach, eyes glittering as he lifts his hand and says, _"Leoht,"_ using the gentle glow to stop him tumbling down the the slope towards them.

"How go the battle plans?" Kilgharrah asks as Aithusa gets to her feet and stretches like a cat, tail extended and teeth bared. 

"It's not going to be easy," Merlin says. "We're hugely outnumbered, and I have no idea what's going to happen when I face Morgana."

Stirring, Kilgharrah turns his huge head to face Merlin, so close that Merlin could stretch out a hand to touch his nose. "You will defeat her," he says, tone matter-of-fact, as though Merlin has already done it.

"She was my friend," Merlin says, absently petting Aithusa's head as she comes to him, then letting himself sink to the ground next to her. "I don't know if I can."

"You managed before."

"That was different. And she didn't have as much power then."

"Merlin," Kilgharrah says. "You have always done what is needed for the defense of Camelot. I have no doubt that you will do the same when you face the witch."

"Her name is Morgana," Merlin shoots back, tired of this old argument between them. "I used to think I knew her."

"You cannot think like this, or you will not be able to do what needs to be done."

"I can’t accept that. Somewhere, she must remember that we were friends."

"Perhaps, but if so, then your friend is buried so deeply that I do not think she can be reached. She has been corrupted by her hatred and her own power."

"And what about me? If I use my powers to kill her," he almost trips over the words, but makes himself continue, "what will that do to me? It's too much, Kilgharrah."

"It is power which you are capable of wielding, Merlin," Kilgharrah says, not unkindly. "I have no doubt that you can defeat Morgana and return to us safely." Then he adds, in the same gentle tone, "And if it does seem that you have been consumed by it and are a danger to Camelot, I will kill you myself."

Merlin laughs out loud, startling Aithusa who grumbles at him, nudging at his shoulder. He strokes her head in apology, then looks up at Kilgharrah. "Thank you, old friend," he says, getting to his feet. "I should get back to Arthur."

"Then we will see you tomorrow," Kilgharrah says, settling back down. "It is a long time since the dragons fought alongside the people of Camelot. Perhaps this is the beginning of the world we have awaited for so long."

"I hope so."

"As do I, my friend," Kilgharrah says, and with the words, Merlin feels affection grip him, warm and strong and so ancient that it seems to have always been there. "As do I."


	6. Camelot

  
_If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles._  
Sun-Tzu

For Merlin, it starts just before dawn, being shaken awake by Gwen, who presses a chunk of hard bread into his hand then squeezes his shoulder before disappearing again. He’s still chewing the bread thoughtfully when Arthur waves him over, apparently going over last minute details with Leon and Percival while Tristan leans against a tree a little way off.

"Decided to join us, have you?" Arthur asks, passing Merlin what turns out to be a skin of lukewarm water. Together with the crust of the bread, Merlin’s had better breakfasts, but he’s probably had worse as well. Since neither Leon nor Percival seem at all perturbed by his presence, Gwen is smiling at him from where she’s tending a nearby fire, and Arthur has his usual care-to-join-us-idiot expression on, it’s actually not that bad a morning at all.

"What’s going on?" he asks, trying to swallow the chunk of bread, then having to give up and wash it down with some water.

Arthur waves his question away, talking to Leon instead. "I want you to take your men and wait on the eastern slopes. They’ll get to the warning bell before we can stop them, I’m sure of it. As soon as you hear it, I want you to come over the drawbridge. With any luck, we’ll come at them from two directions at once, and can overwhelm them."

Although he doesn’t look like he disagrees, Percival does raise an eyebrow at Arthur. "You do know they outnumber us, don’t you?"

"Yes, but only three to one." Arthur says it as though the numbers aren’t really worth considering.

"I suppose odds aren’t everything," Percival says, giving Merlin a knowing look, but Arthur shakes his head.

"No. Merlin will have a sword like the rest of us, assuming he can be trusted not to stab himself in the foot." Having made the tactical mistake of taking another mouthful of bread, Merlin settles for just glaring at Arthur, who ignores him as usual. "I’m going to make sure he gets to the throne room."

"To Morgana," Leon says, nodding in understanding.

"A small group of us can go where a large party can’t," Arthur says, glancing over at Tristan, who nods. "Speaking of which," he goes on, turning back to Percival, "I’m sure that any of the knights who didn’t manage to escape will be in the dungeons. When things turn nasty, Helios might decide to kill the prisoners. I will not let that happen."

"Consider it done," Percival says, holding out his arm first to Arthur, then Merlin, who takes it with more than a little caution. He’s been on the receiving end of one of Percival’s bone-crushing grips before, and is pleasantly surprised by the firm shake and a smile that he gets instead. Leon takes his leave with a just a nod, including Merlin in it before following Percival back into the camp. 

With them gone, Arthur gestures to Merlin. "Well, don’t just stand there." He waves vaguely at the ground, and Merlin belatedly notices that someone has supplied a pile of plate armour, helpfully heaping it at Arthur’s feet. Sighing a little, he hands the last of his bread and the water skin over and starts to sort through it. As he’s buckling Arthur into the pauldron, Gwen comes over, carrying a plate of roasted chestnuts which Arthur helps himself to. From where he’s standing, Merlin can see Gwen’s face, and feel the tension across Arthur’s back. He gives Arthur a small shove, finishes doing up the buckle then reaches around him to grab a chestnut. To his slight surprise, Arthur lets him without even attempting to swat at his hand, and Merlin notices for the first time that Gwen has a sword hanging from her belt.

"I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?" Arthur says, his voice so low that even Merlin nearly misses it. Keeping his eyes down, he manages to do up the final buckle one-handed, then steps back a little, juggling the chestnut between his fingers.

"No." Gwen puts the plate down, glancing around and picking up one of Arthur’s vambraces. "What you’re doing matters, Arthur. You matter." She’s silent for a long moment, hands sure and deft on Arthur’s arm. One vambrace fastened, she stoops for a moment and picks up the other, waiting for Arthur to offer his other hand before fastening it for him. Only once she’s finished does she look up at him, and although Merlin is really trying not to watch, from his sidelong glances, he can see her eyes are wide and shining, her face tilted up towards Arthur’s and her hands resting on his. "I would follow you into the gates of hell."

Merlin can’t see Arthur’s face, doesn’t know what passes between them, only that Arthur drops his head for a moment, almost pressing his forehead to Gwen’s before he raises it again, his voice not as steady as it could be as he says, "Then to the gates of hell it is," and lifts her hands to his lips.

~

Later, Merlin will remember the attack on Camelot the way he remembers the moment when Arthur drew the sword from the stone. It’s a mixture of images, some from his own memory, others described to him, and he’ll never quite be sure which is which. Trying to untangle them will be just too difficult, but they do give him a good idea of how it all happened.

He knows that one of the knights leads a party that scales the southern battlements, killing the sentries and throwing them down into the moat. There aren’t many, and in the telling of the tale later, people are always surprised by that. Merlin isn’t.

As soon as they come within twenty feet of Camelot he feels it, the sensation going through him like a chill on a warm day. It’s as though Morgana has surrounded the whole castle with her magic, suffusing the very stones with her presence. Merlin manages to keep most of his reaction from his face, trying not to shiver as he hurries along behind Arthur. The others don’t seem to have noticed it, and he can’t be sure if Morgana will have felt any kind of disturbance from their presence, relying on her magic rather than the Southrons to guard the castle. Either way, it won’t matter now.

Merlin also knows that three groups of men take on the assault of the western walls, timing their attacks to come one after another and overwhelming the guard before they can cry out. It’s a messy, brutal affair, silently taking out the Southrons by the swiftest possible means, and it’s hard for a man to cry out when his throat is cut.

He knows that Percival leads the most dangerous and most direct route, breaking in through the postern gate that had been their salvation just a week ago. Tristan and Isolde go with him, working with perfect coordination, the sort of timing that only comes from long years of experience, Isolde able to predict that Tristan will strike low, allowing her to come in above him, slamming her sword into a Southron’s chest then stepping back, letting Tristan press his hand over the man’s mouth so that there is no sound. Even Percival is impressed.

Merlin thinks he was there for that, but he can’t be sure, not with his head ringing with Morgana’s magic. It resonates awkwardly against his own, the discord making him jumpy and uncomfortable. It’s impossible to hide that from Arthur who is keeping a wary eye on him, but he seems to be keeping it under control enough that Arthur lets it pass without comment. Or possibly they just have more important things to worry about than Merlin’s nerves.

The only thing he’s really, absolutely sure about is that he sees Arthur take down two men with a single stroke, the sword cutting through their leather armour as though it isn't there. Merlin already knows that the sword is well balanced, having used it himself last year, but in Arthur’s hands, it’s a completely different weapon. As the blade makes another sweep, he wonders if there was really any point in holding back on using his magic, because surely, _surely_ Morgana must be able to feel this, the way the sword practically sings as Arthur wields it, its terrible, uncanny beauty not at all dimmed by the grim task he is putting it to.

He knows that he is actually present for this, even if his vision blurs from time to time and Gwen has to gently steer him round the occasional corner so he doesn’t just walk into the wall. But in his mind, their swift progress through the castle is mixed in with images from atop the walls, or from the town, soldiers clashing and breaking apart, bodies meeting and falling, all of it cut through with the smell of blood and the ring of steel in his ears. Overriding everything is the blanket of Morgana’s magic, a sense so strong that he hasn’t felt anything like it since the Isle of the Blessed. She’s grown in power, much more so than he’d realised, and in a dizzying moment-

_Isolde moves as though the weapon is just an extension of her arm, so natural that it looks like she was born to do this, sword parrying then thrusting, sweeping down in a long arc, then rising again, her face impassive as it catches her opponent under the chin, throwing him backwards in a spray of blood._

-he wonders if he has completely miscalculated, if his powers are going to be enough against her. His distraction is showing too much, he knows, but he can’t help it, trying to keep his magic tamped down while trying not to let her overwhelm him.

They’ve reached the cloister that runs along one side of the courtyard, and Merlin realises this is Arthur taking hold of him, not another raiding party, when he’s grabbed by his arm and pushed against the wall hard enough to make him hit his head. The reality of the pain is enough to pull him back into this moment, so that he’s absolutely sure that he sees Tristan heading past them along the cloister, checking that no one is waiting to ambush them up ahead, while Isolde guards their backs. Arthur’s face is close to his, breath warm on Merlin’s face as he says, "Are you ready?"

It’s after this moment that things get really confused in Merlin’s mind, too many stories and images clashing together so that instead of building a picture of what happened, he’s left with a jumbled collection of images, as though someone has cut all the pages from a book and thrown them in the air, illustrations and text all muddled together until he can’t reconstruct the order of events.

The plan is this: they wait in the shadows, Arthur still pressed against Merlin, Gwen at his side, Tristan and Isolde a little further off, keeping watch. The men on the battlements start to move in on the castle, breaking down doors and running through corridors, cutting down anyone they meet. This is the noisy part of the operation, impossible to hide forever and it seems to take no time at all for the warning bell to start to sound. That’s the signal for Merlin to close his eyes and reach out past his magic, deeper down then outwards, using the power that always feel so ancient that he doesn’t know if he is wielding it or it is using him. Either way, he is sure that it is not a power Morgana will sense, even with her thrall over the castle.

That is the plan, and he knows it succeeds because when he opens his eyes, Arthur’s face is close to his, and Merlin sees the reflection of his own eyes in Arthur’s, a flash of gold that flares and is gone in an instant. The image of that is superimposed onto Percival approaching the cloister from the other end, waiting in the corresponding shadows as he signals to them that all has gone well. One of his men is limping, and Percival’s knuckles are scraped where he must have used his fist rather than his sword, but it doesn’t matter. They are ready to go as soon as the next signal is received.

It’s at this point that Merlin’s memories start to converge with reality, his tangled thoughts snapping into place and time getting itself back in the right order again. He still feels as though he is in eight places at once, fighting his way into the armoury, posting a sentry on one of the main corridors, being taken by surprise as he rounds one of the darker corners, trying to battle his way across the drawbridge, snatching up a fallen crossbow and firing it down into the men starting to pour into the courtyard. The images are all in his mind at once, like separate panels of a single stained glass window, so clear and bright that he feels he could stand here and watch them forever and still not know the whole story.

Then the window shatters in a single, blinding flash of fire. Arthur shields him from most of it, but Merlin feels the wave of heat just the same and it’s almost too hot, for all that he was prepared for it. Beside him, Gwen presses against his arm, burying her face in his sleeve to protect herself. The heat is quickly followed by a wash of cooler air, carrying the smell of sulfur and the first hints of charred flesh, as Kilgharrah beats his wings to carry him up into the sky again.

Arthur lifts his head, turning and going over to one of the cloister pillars and peering upwards. It’s barely dawn yet, the light still grey and watery, and against it, Merlin knows what Arthur will see, the familiar outline, swooping almost lazily through the sky. Gwen has gone over as well, but Merlin doesn’t need to. He can close his eyes and reach out, pressing his mind against Kilgharrah’s as he rises high again, ready to turn and make another, devastating pass. In the meantime, he can hear chaos all around him, the note of panic in men’s voices that he’s heard before, years ago and is suddenly present again.

Except this time, it’s not Arthur standing on the battlements calling for pointless batteries of crossbow bolts against an impervious foe. This time, Arthur needs the dragon to return, is willing him on if the edge of what Merlin can feel is right. There’s a hint of guilt in it, as there must be, that a king should encourage such devastation to fall on his own castle, but there’s also a steely determination and a note of triumph. They have the distraction they need.

Merlin opens his eyes in time to see the shadow fall across the courtyard again, and in front of him, Arthur wraps himself protectively around Gwen, turning them both so that his back is to the pillar and giving them some shelter against the next wave of fire. Unlike the first blast of heat, Merlin barely feels it, watching instead as flames lick across the flagstones, then up along the nearest tower. There are more cries, louder than before, and he knows someone has been caught in the heart of the inferno. He looks up into Arthur’s eyes as the screaming is suddenly cut short, needing Arthur to know that he takes no pleasure in this, as much as he knows this may just win them the battle.

It’s after this second pass, with smoke rising from the courtyard and the sounds of skirmishes breaking out again, that Arthur gives the signal to move. He’s sheathed his sword, and has one hand on Gwen’s shoulder, wrapping the other around Merlin’s arm and dragging him along as they half-run towards the doorway at the centre of the cloister wall.

Tristan meets them there, flashing Isolde a tight smile over Merlin’s shoulder.

"Whatever happened to finding a nice bit of land and settling down?" he says, and Merlin hears Isolde laugh and say, "Haven’t given up on it yet."

There’s no time for anything else, because then Percival has joined them, his men fanning out along the cloister wall and looking around nervously. They might all know that Kilgharrah is on their side, but that doesn’t make his attack any less terrifying, and they know if they stay out here too long, someone is going to spot them.

"Time to split up," Arthur says, pushing Gwen towards Tristan. "We can get to the hall ourselves from here."

"The dungeons for us, then," Percival replies, the smile on his face grimly eager.

Gwen twists in Tristan’s grip, frowning up at Arthur. "I’m coming with you," she says, her frown deepening when Arthur shakes his head.

"I need you safe," he says. "Please, Gwen."

She’s going to protest, Merlin knows, so he puts in quickly, "Gaius is down there," blinking a little when she turns her glare on him. "If he survived, Gaius will be down there. And Elyan."

That seems to break some of her resolve, because she pulls herself free of Tristan’s hand, but she doesn’t argue any further, just gives Arthur a short nod. "Be careful," she says, then she is gone, disappearing into the shadows of the castle with the others.

Arthur stands staring after her for long enough that Merlin starts to get twitchy again. He can feel Kilgharrah approaching again, not to mention the individual fights that are starting to fill the courtyard. It’s only a matter of time before they’re seen.

"We must go," he says gently, pulling against Arthur’s hold, hoping it’s enough to rouse him.

The expression on Arthur’s face when he turns to him is equal parts surprise and fear, as though he’s discovered some huge, hidden secret and doesn’t know what to do about it.

"I can’t lose her. Whatever happened, whatever-" Arthur’s eyes are wide and his fingers are digging hard into Merlin’s arm. "Merlin, I-"

"I know." Wincing a little, Merlin pulls against the grip again. "Arthur, I know. But we have to go. Now."

Shaking himself, Arthur nods and lets Merlin drag him through the doorway bare seconds before the next wave of fire. They stand in the dim hall for a moment, letting their eyes adjust. Merlin can feel Kilgharrah's plan, and turns in time to see a huge, dark shadow fall over the courtyard, closely followed by Kilgharrah himself. He seems huge in the confined space, tail whipping from side to side and scattering the party of Southrons charging out of the north tower. There's a fierce joy in his mind that frightens Merlin a little; he doesn't often remember that for all Aithusa's gentle affection now, this is what she will become one day. Dragons are predators with power and the intelligence to guide it. No wonder humans had sought to rule over them, and vaguely he wonders if the first dragonlords had felt this power for themselves and craved it as much as they must have feared it.

It's now Arthur's turn to rouse him, nodding towards the corridor to their right.

"Ready?" he asks, then heads off at a run, not waiting for Merlin's answer.

With some reluctance, Merlin pulls his awareness away from Kilgharrah, focusing instead on the task in front of him. The dragon's blood is up, and Merlin cannot afford to be distracted.

They don't meet any Southrons until they round the second corner, running into a small group of them who might be trying to come to their comrades' aid, or might be looking for something portable to take with them as they flee. Either way, Arthur cuts down the first man before his surprise can really register, then presses on into the rest of the group. It's like the caves at Ealdor again, Arthur sweeping through and trusting that Merlin will keep up, except this time he can't use his magic to clear his own path.

His world contracts into a bubble that extends only from his body to the tip of his sword. Given their propensity for attracting trouble, Merlin's never been ungrateful for Arthur's insistence that he learn at least the basics, but he rarely has to use it like this. Bringing the sword up to block a strike, he has a sudden memory of following Lancelot through these corridors, fighting off black-clad soldiers, struggling to get to the hall to end it all.

The difference is rammed home to him when he nearly trips over a body lying prone across the corridor. The immortal army had disintegrated when he'd touched them, leaving no sign that they had ever been there. These men are dying at his feet, and as he struggles to keep his balance, another comes at him, face half-hidden behind a studded leather mask that covers him from chin to nose. Merlin focuses on defending himself, on keeping one swing ahead of the man's curved sword, but he's being forced backwards, his heel hitting the body he's just stepped over.

The man is on him as he falls, and for a horrible, panicked moment, Merlin thinks he's going to have to use his magic after all, unable to see any way out from under the terrible pressure of the sword bearing down on his. Then an idea comes to him and he stops pushing upwards, forcing his arm sideways instead, barely an inch, but it's enough. Unbalanced, the Southron realises too late what Merlin has done and tries to pull himself back. Merlin ignores the way his back is throbbing and his shoulder feels wrenched, pushing his arm another inch to his right, then throwing himself to his left as the man starts to fall.

The Southron has both hands on his sword, so although he manages to half-roll onto one shoulder, he can't break his fall properly, and Merlin is already bringing his sword down, hilt first, into the man's face.

He sits on the flagstones for three long breaths, trying to catalogue everywhere that hurts, then giving up on the basis it's going to take too long and he's too relieved to think straight. Another breath, and there are footsteps from further down the corridor, and he scrambles to his feet just as Arthur rounds the corner and skids to a stop in front of him.

"Now is hardly the moment for a lie down, Merlin," he says, looking around at the fallen bodies. "The way ahead is clear, we need to go now."

"Right," Merlin says, looking at his sword, then letting it fall to the ground before stepping over the bodies. It’s not going to be much use against Morgana, and he just shrugs when Arthur gives him a curious look. "Might accidentally stab myself in the foot," he says with a grin, which Arthur returns.

"Good point," he says, waiting until Merlin is beside him to start down the corridor again. Merlin's whole back feels like one big bruise, and he's fairly sure he's strained at least half the muscles in his shoulder. At the back of his mind, he feels a niggling worry that he doesn't think is his, and he spares a moment to reach out to the part of his mind that is always aware of the dragons, trying to reassure them that he's fine, that he'll manage, that they should stick to the plan.

He's so distracted by it that he almost bumps into Arthur, who has come to a stop in front of the hall doors. They look at each other, Merlin wondering if he's supposed to say something, or if Arthur is, and if so, what. They've spent the last week running headlong from one crisis into the next, and now they are here, it doesn't quite seem real.

It's Arthur who breaks the awkward silence, lifting the sword a little so that it catches the light.

"You know," he says, tone apparently casual, "this thing isn't bad."

"Thought you'd like it." Merlin returns Arthur's grin, taking a few deep breaths. "Ready?"

"Ready." Sheathing his sword, Arthur turns to the doors, staring at them for a heartbeat before putting both hands on them and pushing hard.

They swing open easily and Arthur leads the way into the dimly lit hall beyond. Merlin's eyes are still adjusting to the gloom when he hears Morgana's voice.

"Welcome, dear brother. It's been far too long." She's at the far end of the hall, leaning against the side of the throne as though she has spent so long waiting for them that it's become boring. As they approach, she slowly pushes herself upright, walking towards them in a slow, casual slide. It's so familiar and alien all at once that Merlin almost misses her next words. "I apologise if you had a difficult reception. It's hard to know who to trust these days."

If she expects Arthur to rise to that bait then he disappoints her, keeping up his steady progress towards the centre of the room, Merlin half a step behind. He and Morgana face each other, and it's only when Merlin is standing next to Arthur again that he notices the fourth person in the room, a tall, dark skinned man with a predatory smile on his face. This must be Helios, staying close whether out of duty or to ensure he gets paid. He's standing behind the throne, watching proceedings as though it's just a particularly interesting play, but Merlin can tell from the way his eyes are fixed on Morgana and the way his hands are tight on the back of the throne that he's ready to pounce at any moment.

Shivering a little, Merlin pulls his attention back as Arthur says, "What happened to you, Morgana?" There's a longing in his voice that is almost painful to hear. "I thought we were friends."

"As did I." Merlin can't see Arthur's face from where he's standing, but he can see Morgana's, sees the hint of something softer that passes through her expression like lightning and then is gone again. "But alas," she says, voice cold and cutting, "we were both wrong."

Kilgharrah's words roll in Merlin's head, his warning seeming all-too accurate now. Distantly, he hears the echo of something else as well, some interest and worry and anticipation that ripples through his nerves, and he has to force himself to focus on Morgana again. She's backing away a little, looking Arthur up and down with a look of disgust so deep it makes Merlin’s stomach turn over. Arthur just shakes his head.

"You can't blame me for my father's sins."

"It's a little late for that." Morgana’s lip curls into a sneer. "You’ve made it perfectly clear how you feel about me and my kind. You're not as different from Uther as you'd like to think."

"Nor are you," Arthur replies, still with his voice low and steady, but the words make Morgana’s eyes narrow and anger flash in her eyes. Somewhere deep down, Merlin feels the gathering of power, the drawing in of the threads of magic that she’s woven over the whole Camelot.

"I’m going to enjoy killing you, Arthur Pendragon. Not even Emrys can save you now."

He’d thought that this secret would be harder to tell. Trying to explain _Emrys_ to Arthur would have been almost impossible, at least in part because Merlin doesn’t really understand it himself. But after everything he’s told Arthur over the last few days, it’s not going to be difficult at all, for all that his heart is pounding in his chest and the thought of finally letting his magic free after spending so long constrained is making him dizzy.

Morgana has taken a few steps away from them, lifting her hand ready to strike. Distantly, Merlin is aware of confusion from Arthur, obviously wondering if Morgana has gone mad with her anger, speaking of some stranger called Emrys who is supposed to swoop in and rescue him. It’s background noise, though, and Arthur will know soon anyway. Merlin’s focus is all on Morgana, calling up his own power even as she speaks the first words of her spell.

_"Hleap on bæc."_

She’s grown strong, and it takes more effort than he’d expected to deflect the blow, lifting his hand instinctively to give focus for his power. Even so, he’s knocked back a couple of steps, and when he looks up, both Arthur and Morgana are staring at him, wide-eyed.

His first instinct is to look around, pretend that he doesn’t know where that came from either. It actually shocks him how automatic the reaction is - to hide, to pretend, to lie. As he forces himself to meet Morgana’s eyes, it’s as though they’re seeing each other for the first time, free of pretence and concealment.

No more secrets.

"Emrys," she whispers, her voice carrying in the silence. As the word echoes around the hall, Merlin hears something else, the sound of a blade being drawn, steel scraping against a scabbard. He doesn’t know if it’s Arthur or Helios, and he doesn’t dare try to look. He mustn’t take his eyes from Morgana.

"That is what the Druids call me," he says.

From the corner of his eye he sees Arthur flinch as Morgana laughs, the high, uncanny peal filling all the space around them and ringing in Merlin’s ears.

"How well you've kept your secret." She’s looking at him properly now, the surprise gone and cool assessment remaining. "Who would have thought it, a worthless servant with all that power."

"Please, Morgana," he says, stretching out his hand and seeing a flash of light from a blade across the hall. It must have been Helios who drew his weapon, and who now fears what Merlin might do. For now, he only has words. "It doesn’t have to be this way."

"This is how it is." There is no give in Morgana’s voice. No way to mistake it for anything but the sheer, cold fury that it is, even if Merlin suspects that underlying it all is a foundation of fear. She’s scared of him, he knows, but it won’t make her easier to fight, not when that real, human fear makes her look almost like the woman he used to know. "How well you’ve protected your king," she says, and Merlin has just enough time to spare a glance for Arthur before she says, "but you have defied me for the last time."

He realises what she means to do in the fraction of a second before her eyes flash gold and Arthur is knocked off his feet, thrown backwards across the hall like a rag doll, landing in a crumpled heap by the doors. Merlin had anticipated an attack in his direction, and he takes a moment to curse himself for a fool. He should have known she’d go after Arthur instead.

Swift on the heels of his anger at himself is anger at Morgana who is already turning to him, hand still raised. He doesn’t even hesitate, and when he reaches for it, the magic is there, strong and sure and bursting to break free. Fuelled by his anger and his desperate need to get over to Arthur, check he’s alright, the blow is stronger than he might have managed otherwise, stronger even than the one that stopped Morgause in this very hall barely a year ago.

Unlike him, Morgana has had the chance to anticipate the strike, and although she staggers under the force of it, she doesn’t fall. Needing to take the risk, Merlin lashes out again, distracting her long enough for him to dart over to Arthur, crouching beside him and pressing a hand to his face. Arthur stirs, just a little, and Merlin can start breathing again.

Morgana is closing on him, stalking across the room with Helios on her heels, predator and vulture come to look at their prey. Rather than get up, Merlin braces one knee on the ground and lifts his head instead, hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder.

"How appropriate," Morgana says, stopping a little way off. "You’ll die on your knees like the coward you are." When Merlin just shakes his head, her mouth twists in a sneer of a smile. "You could have helped me, Merlin. Together, we could have taken this kingdom back for the old religion. But you chose those who would persecute and kill us."

"Victory is not peace, Morgana," he says, still not prepared to give up on reaching her. He tries to put all his reluctance into his voice, trying to tell her that he doesn't want to do this. "All you’re interested is revenge and power."

"And you chose to betray your kin." There’s a harshness in her voice now, and he can sense the anger building around him, that cold fury growing into something hotter and fiercer. It’s as though the whole castle is bracing itself, ready for this moment.

He is afraid. Not because he knows he can defeat her, because that outcome is by no means certain, but because he can feel his own magic stirring in his mind, fighting against the gathering of her power, and he doesn’t know if he will be able to control it. It will be a hollow victory if he manages to destroy the whole castle while trying to defend Arthur.

As if hearing his thoughts, Arthur stirs again under his hand, rolling onto his back and groaning. Something changes on Morgana’s face, her eyes glowing gold and her mouth opening in a wordless cry as she holds out her hands. Merlin lifts his arm to protect his face and shouting, _"Scield"_ even as the blast flies towards them. It knocks him back a little, then there is a hand on his back, holding him up so that he can maintain the protection against the stream of pure energy that is rolling around them, held back only by his will.

Arthur pushes at him, forcing him up to his feet, then bracing him when his knees buckle. Fire is streaming from Morgana’s hands, cut through with bolts of lightning that impact on their bubble of protection like arrows on a shield. Without Arthur’s strong grip, Merlin is sure he would have fallen. As it is, he brings his other hand up, trying to push the edge of the shield further away from them, trying to force Morgana back.

The sound of the fire-stream fills his ears, louder even than Kilgharrah’s roar and he has to shout to be heard, even though Arthur is scant inches away.

"She’s too strong," he says. "I don’t know how long I can hold her."

Something isn’t right. He knows he’s stronger than this, has done more with less effort. When he faced her in the woods, it had cost him energy to incapacitate her, but not this much. Sweat is pouring down his face and neck, hands trembling with the strain of holding the shield out, and his magic seems to be flaring and receding, taking all his concentration to maintain. Instinctively, he reaches deeper into himself, trying to draw on the power that he can't name, finding that even his sense of the dragons is dulled, for all that he thinks he can sense Aithusa desperately calling out for him.

Behind him, Arthur moves so that Merlin’s back is braced against his chest, hands still tight on Merlin’s shoulders. "Tell me what to do," he shouts back, and Merlin shakes his head, because it doesn’t work like that. The magic is his, he doesn’t need-

Except that he does. He’s always drawn magic from outside himself when he’s needed it, whether that’s from the sky or from living earth below or from the solid strength of the dragons. Here in Camelot, a city now drenched in Morgana’s power, Morgana’s magic, he cannot reach down into that well to draw up what he needs. The realisation makes his arms shake, his power stuttering for a moment until he can steady it, and he’s forced back by the blast, slamming harder into Arthur and hearing him grunt. He has to lower one arm, bending the other round to shade his face from the light and heat, his whole body turning as his hand brushes against something cold and solid just behind him.

A jolt sweeps through him, shocking him into dropping his other arm as well but instead of the shield buckling, the energy is channelled into it, forcing it outwards until they are at the centre of an expanding sphere of power which sweeps through the whole hall. He hears Morgana’s scream before he can locate her, thrown backwards by the explosion of light, which seems to cut through the walls before disappearing.

Gasping, Merlin pulls himself upright, away from Arthur so that he can turn and look at him. "The sword," he says as he tries to heave more air into his lungs. "I need the sword."

His blast of energy has bought them mere seconds; Morgana won’t be held for long, and her influence is still too strong for him to reach out for his full powers. To his relief, Arthur doesn’t argue, just draws the sword and holds it out to him, hilt first, but Merlin shakes his head, putting a hand on either side of the blade and closing his eyes.

This is a sword forged in the dragon’s breath, a deeper magic than Morgana can understand. Possibly deeper than he understands himself, if he’s honest. As he pours magic into it, he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, only that it comes from the same place as the dragon-tongue, from that place of stillness and strength that comes to him when he speaks to Kilgharrah.

When he lets go and opens his eyes, Arthur opens his mouth to ask something, then sweeps him aside, half throwing the sword in the air to turn it, catch it by the hilt and parry a blow from Helios that would have stabbed Merlin in the back.

Staggering to the wall, Merlin puts a hand against it, then presses his forehead to its coolness for a moment. His face feels burned by Morgana’s fire, and his mind is ablaze as well, twisting and fighting the hold Morgana has on the castle, but unable to get free. He turns, leaning back against the stone and forcing his eyes to focus again. Across the hall, Helios and Arthur are locked in a deadly dance, with Helios having the height advantage, but Arthur’s strength beating back every assault. He can’t keep it up forever, though, not after all the fighting he’s already been through and his still-injured ribs.

Merlin's vision is still a little blurry, and he peers frantically into the hall trying to see Morgana, her dark dress and hair making her hard to spot in the dim light. It doesn’t help that every time Arthur’s sword clashes with Helios’ it jars through Merlin, so that he has to set his teeth against it as another blow rattles through his skull. His magic is wrapped up in that sword now, bound to the dragons’ and to the power of Camelot itself, this place that he’s lived for so long that having Morgana invade it and hold it the way she has feels like a personal violation. 

With the better focus from the sword, he can reach Aithusa again, trying to give her what reassurance he can. It's not much, so many conflicting emotions ripping through him even as he tries to use his magic to steady himself. He wants to protect Arthur. He wants to stop Morgana. He wants to free Camelot. He wants to save Morgana. It's not something he can think his way through right now, not like this, so he leans on his magic harder, letting it become something solid and firm that he can actually use.

This isn't magic from his head but from his soul, instinct telling him what he needs to know. Morgana is almost doubled over, as though the flare of Merlin’s power has winded her, and she’s leaning hard on the arm of the throne. Her back is to him, and he can see every painful heave of her chest. He knows how she feels.

He knows. And he knows because he is holding onto the stone wall for dear life, and she is so bound up in this place now that he can’t help but feel her in it. Then it hits him: Morgana is a high priestess. She has made this her place of power as much as the Isle of the Blessed. And not just the castle. This room is so much a part of her now that when he lets himself, he can feel the same prickling along his skin that he felt from that old stone altar when he faced Nimueh. That time, he’d had the elements to call on, and while he’s fairly sure he could make it rain inside the hall, he’s not sure he’ll be able to get enough power into it for it to be any use. Not for the first time, Merlin promises himself that he will pay more attention in the future when Gaius is lecturing him about the Old Religion. Maybe that would have given him an easier solution.

But at least he knows now why it was so important to put his power into the sword. What he needs now is for Arthur to have the chance to use it. He can’t defeat Morgana head on, and he’s not fool enough to think he can trick her sufficiently to get under her guard. They need a bigger distraction, one that she can’t ignore and can’t defeat quickly.

Merlin doesn’t need to close his eyes this time. Familiarity has brought ease, and the power is already close to the surface, ready and waiting. He reaches out with it, noticing distantly that Morgana’s head whips around, her eyes seeking his in the gloom. She must have felt it this time, frowning at him, and he realises that she probably doesn’t know what he’s doing. This isn’t magic Morgause could have taught her.

Dragging his eyes away, Merlin pushes himself upright, pleased when his knees hold him this time. He turns to where Helios is backing Arthur towards the door, raining blows down on his injured side, and is about to act when the doors are flung open, making everyone jump. Arthur takes advantage of the distraction to get his footing back, while Merlin takes an unsteady step forwards, ready to face the hordes he is expecting to burst into the hall. Then he finds himself turning on his heel, holding up his hand and deflecting the fireball Morgana hurls at Tristan and Isolde, who duck behind him.

He hears Tristan give a snort of laughter. "Some reception."

"Arthur," Merlin gasps. "He’s-"

Isolde’s voice is surprisingly calm for someone who’s just had a magical fireball thrown at her. "Got it," she says, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder, then she and Tristan are moving, crossing the hall to get between Helios and Arthur, and Merlin hears Tristan say, "Thought you might need some help."

Merlin keeps his eyes on Morgana, moving slowly to keep between her and the others. Her efforts earlier seem to have temporarily exhausted her though, and she’s leaning heavily on the arm of the throne, glaring at Merlin. Even if she’s unable to strike first, he doesn’t doubt that she could defend herself, possibly cracking the castle in half to do so. He takes a hesitant step towards her, then another before glancing over his shoulder, still desperately looking for a way out of this that doesn’t just involve having to hurt her. At the back of his mind, he can feel something building, growing in awareness as it comes closer, and he knows that he must get this right.

He catches Arthur’s eye, gets an acknowledging nod, then turns back to Morgana in time to block her next spell, snapping her head back with the force of his blow but not managing more than that. She lowers her head, then reaches up to wipe blood from the corner of her mouth.

"Is that all you’ve got, Emrys?" she says contemptuously. "And I thought you were supposed to be so powerful."

"Surrender, Morgana." His voice is rough in his throat, and he has to swallow to clear it. "Surrender now, and there may yet be a way through this."

She smiles at him with bitter humour. "You may defeat my army, Merlin, but you cannot hurt me, and certainly not here. Your blades are useless against me."

"Not this one," Merlin says, just as Arthur comes to stand beside him. He’s half-limping, having to hold the sword in both hands, and he looks as though he’s been through three battles already, but he’s standing, and his eyes are fixed on Morgana. "It was forged in a dragon’s breath."

It’s as though the words are those of a spell, because as Merlin says them, the great window at the far end of the hall breaks into a thousand pieces. Glass shatters in all directions, and Merlin throws up his arm, turning away from the shards that are raining down on them. The sound is unearthly, a roar and a scream and a cry of triumph all in one as Aithusa bursts into the hall and Merlin’s mind fully all at once.

On his left, Arthur shakes his head, whether out of wonder or to clear the fragments of glass from his eyes, Merlin can’t tell. The air seems full of tiny pieces, caught like motes of dust in beams of sunlight that stream through the broken window. Beneath the gaping hole, Merlin hears Aithusa call again, and although it is not the rumbling, shaking noise that Kilgharrah is capable of, it’s terrifying in its own way, with a plaintive edge to it that echoes his own desperation.

And it works. Morgana pushes away from the throne, turning her back on Merlin and Arthur to stare at Aithusa. She starts towards the dragon, hands outstretched, and Merlin takes his chance.

"The throne," he says, shoving at Arthur’s arm to push him forwards.

Time seems to slow, letting Merlin see everything happening at once although his eyes are fixed on the sword as Arthur takes two long steps forwards and lifts it above his head. Behind them, by the doors, Tristan disarms Helios with a brutal blow, while Isolde rises up from her crouch, thrusting her sword into the man’s belly. It seems to be that which alerts Morgana, who turns and finally catches sight of Arthur. Her mouth opens in a wordless scream, and Merlin finds the strength from somewhere to lift his arm and throw her backwards, almost to Aithusa’s feet.

Then Arthur brings the sword down through the throne, the blade slicing through the wood as easily as it might through flesh. The back shatters, and Arthur keeps the stroke going, cutting right through the seat as well before staggering back. In a blinding rush, Merlin can feel _everything_. The stones beneath his feet, the rock deep below the foundations of the castle, the life in the air itself all washing over him as startling as a cool river on a hot day. He can feel Kilgharrah still standing at the centre of the courtyard, holding the remaining Southrons at bay while Arthur’s men look on in wonder.

And he can hear the sword, ringing with power, his own magic and that of the dragons bound up together and singing with the joy of being put to its rightful purpose. It echoes in his mind as the world swims back into focus, and he sees that in front of him, the throne has been cleaved in two, one half fallen onto its side on the flagstones.

There are footsteps, and Merlin looks over to see Arthur crossing the distance between himself and Morgana, still with the sword raised, although whether for attack or defence, Merlin doesn’t know. Morgana is still lying on the floor of the hall, trying to lift herself up on one arm but stopping when she sees Aithusa’s face so close to her own. They’re so close, woman and dragon, that Merlin sees Aithusa’s breath stir on of the curls of Morgana’s hair.

Arthur stops a few paces away. "It’s over," he says. "Please, Morgana, don’t make me do this."

It’s a moment before she looks at him and when she does, it’s with obvious effort, having to tear herself away from Aithusa’s gaze. Her face is pale but she lifts her chin defiantly. "I will not beg you, Arthur. And I will not surrender." She smiles, thin and bitter. "Goodbye, brother."

Without the warnings that he’d received from being in her net of power, Merlin doesn’t know what she’s going to do until she’s started, the wind whipping at his clothes and hair. He pushes it away from him, staggering over to Arthur although he can already tell it’s not a spell of attack. As he comes closer, he sees Aithusa looking at Morgana, feeling the dragon’s curiosity and something that might just be pity, an echo of his own feelings from earlier and fear wraps around his heart. 

"No," he whispers, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to get closer. "No! Aithusa!"

It’s too late. Aithusa, who has always been forgiving, compassionate, trusting. Who has been so far into Merlin’s mind that she knows his regrets and reluctance, his desires to help Morgana as much as to stop her. This is all going to be Merlin’s fault again, because the wind is too strong, keeping him at bay and he can’t get to them in time. 

"Stop them!" Arthur yells, and Merlin tries, breaking into the circle of power for an instant, knowing it won’t be enough.

Morgana reaches up and wraps her arms around the dragon’s neck, then throws her head back in an all-too familiar gesture. Merlin has time to see Aithusa’s last, pained look and feel something that might just be an apology before she is gone, caught up in Morgana’s spell, both of them vanishing in swirling black ribbons of power that rise to the roof of the hall before disappearing completely.

He and Arthur stand together in silence for a long moment that seems to stretch out into forever.

It’s Arthur who speaks first. "Did you know-"

"No." The word breaks something in Merlin. He thinks it might be his heart. "I didn’t know."

"She gave me her fealty." Arthur turns to him, hurt in his eyes. " _You_ gave me her fealty, Merlin. How could she break it?"

"She doesn’t think she did." Merlin’s sense of Aithusa is fading from the bright spark he’d felt when she burst into the room back to a dull ache, like the memory of an old injury. But he knows that she does not think she has broken her word or his in what she has done. "Morgana was hurt. Aithusa knew she could help. I taught her-" His voice catches and he knows the tears will not be far behind. He needs to get this out first. "I taught her that she should help people. That maybe if she did, they wouldn’t fear her."

Arthur nods, the way he does when he understands but does not accept what he is hearing. Then he turns, the sword still in his hand, and Merlin hears his footsteps leaving the room. After another moment, he hears more steps, Tristan and Isolde following Arthur out.

Only then does he let himself sink to his knees, the comfort of being cradled back in the familiar presence of Camelot a hollow victory after all, and he lets himself cry.

From somewhere outside and resonating at the very core of his soul, he hears a long, mournful howl, and he lets his sorrow mingle with Kilgharrah’s until he can no longer tell where one begins and the other ends.


	7. Secret

  
_The secret of happiness is freedom. And the secret of freedom, courage_  
Thucydides

Merlin stands on the eastern battlements in the early morning light. The smell of smoke lingers in the air after yesterday's fight, and there are too many stones stained with blood, but Camelot is won, and Arthur is king once more.

The repairs will take a long time, even if Arthur lets him use magic to help. They lost a few dozen men, some to the initial assault and others yesterday, eight of them knights. It's few enough and too many, Arthur taking every loss as a personal one. Below, in the town, people are still drifting back to find what is left of their homes, so it will be some days before the losses there can be counted. As he looks down, he sees men and women righting market stalls, clearing debris from the highway to the castle, or standing in small groups, looking at shells of houses and talking intently. 

They will repair, rebuild, recover. They will offer up petitions and Arthur will grant them all that he can, money and men to put their lives back together. He will not forget that when rulers fight, it is the people who suffer.

Below in the castle, repairs are also ongoing. The Southrons looted what they could, destroyed much of what they could not, leaving furniture smashed and tapestries torn from the walls. Most of the castle servants who survived are here, working under the Steward's watchful eye, carrying broken wood out into the courtyard, sweeping up dust and trying to set as much to rights as they can. It's going to take a while.

Merlin rests his hands on the rough stone and feels the castle breathe around him. He's tempted to do the same as Morgana had, to pour his power into these walls so that no one could stand against him here. He thinks he could do it, although he'd have to ask Gaius for guidance, and just that thought is enough to make his heart turn over in his chest. Gaius will live, as will Gwaine and Elyan, all of them bruised and weak, but alive. The joy of it makes him want to throw his head back and shout aloud from relief and happiness. He settles for grinning to himself and closing his eyes, lifting his face to the sun.

Footsteps break into his reverie, and he doesn't need to turn to see who it is.

"You know," Arthur says, "I'm fairly sure servants are supposed to run around the castle after their king, not the other way around. If Percival hadn't spotted you up here, I'd still be looking in every cupboard in Camelot."

"I take it she said yes." Even with his eyes closed, Merlin can hear the smile in Arthur's voice, the warm edge to his tone that stops him sounding truly annoyed.

Arthur lets out a long breath, then his shoulder bumps against Merlin's. "She said yes." He hesitates for a moment and there's something different in his voice when he goes on, "It's not all going to be easy. I still have a lot of questions, maybe even some doubts. My head is telling me that I shouldn't trust so easily, not again. I've been betrayed twice by those closest to me. If it were to happen again..."

"It won't." Opening his eyes, Merlin turns to look at Arthur. "It won't." He knows they're not just talking about Gwen, and he presses as much meaning into the words as he can. This close together, Merlin can see himself reflected in Arthur's eyes, and he holds the steady gaze, willing Arthur to hear what he's not saying.

After a moment, Arthur nods, turning away. "Do you know what happened to Aithusa?"

Merlin’s sense of her is still distant and aching. He knows she’s alive, but she won’t respond to his silent calls. "She’s safe, for now," he says. "If I summon her, she’ll have to come, she won’t have a choice." He tilts his head a little, trying to see Arthur’s face. "Do you want me to summon her?"

Arthur shakes his head. "No. Not yet. I believe that she made her choice out of compassion, and if there’s even the slightest chance that she can change Morgana, I’m prepared to take it." He presses his lips together, then says, "But if it comes down to it, Merlin-"

"She can’t fight you." That conviction runs deep, and Merlin knows it’s true. "If Morgana tries to make her choose, she won’t be able to. I won’t let her."

"Morgana will try again," Arthur says. "If there’s any way we can get to her before she can attack Camelot, I’ll need to know about it."

Nodding, Merlin swallows against the lump in his throat. "I understand. I’ll talk to Gaius, see if he can tell me anything. I couldn’t-" The next thought makes his eyes sting, and he has to try again. "There was no one to teach me how to be a dragonlord, but if anyone can help me, Gaius can."

"Not Kilgharrah?" 

It’s still strange hearing that name from Arthur’s lips, even if he says it as though he’s been on first name terms with a dragon for his whole life.

"I can ask, but I don’t think he really understands why Aithusa did it. In some ways, it’s hurt him more than anyone."

That makes Arthur snort with disbelief. "Maybe," he concedes. He leans against the wall, hands clasped together where they and he looks down at them as he says, "I’ve been talking to Gaius."

Merlin blinks, trying to work out if he missed a turn in the conversation somewhere. "Is he alright?" he asks, wondering if Gaius would have said something to Arthur that he wouldn’t tell Merlin.

"He says he is, and I suppose he should know." Sighing a little, Arthur straightens up and puts a hand in his pocket. "But we talked about a lot of things. Things that have happened over the last few years. Things he thought I should know about."

Merlin’s still watching Arthur’s eyes, so he misses Arthur pulling his hand out of his pocket until something is dangled in front of his face. Suddenly, he can’t breathe, watching the small pendant swing back and forth on its chain. When he can unlock the muscles in his jaw enough to speak, he finds he doesn’t know what to say, and he turns away from Arthur, leaning heavily on the castle wall.

"It was you, wasn’t it?" Arthur says, and Merlin can’t bring himself to turn around and face him. "You were the old sorcerer."

"Yes."

"You tried to heal my father."

"Yes."

"And Agravaine made sure it wouldn’t work."

"Yes."

It’s a hundred, a thousand times worse than telling Arthur about his magic or the dragons. Then, he’d been able to ask Arthur to look past his fears to see Merlin himself, to remember all they had shared and all the reasons Arthur could trust him. Now, the secret he’s been dreading is out in the open, and he has nowhere left to hide.

"I’m sorry," Merlin manages, throat almost too rough to get the words past. 

There’s tight, controlled anger in Arthur’s voice now, a note of betrayal that cuts Merlin to the quick. "You should have told me. You both should have told me."

"Would you have believed us?" A faint spark stirs in Merlin’s chest, unreasonable anger, because Arthur lost his father that day and has a right to be hurt. But he doesn’t seem to understand. "Barely three months later, you were prepared to have Gaius arrested as a traitor just on Agravaine’s word. You trusted him completely, Arthur, and nothing I said made any difference. How could I tell you what he’d done? You would have thrown me in the stocks. Or worse." When Arthur doesn’t answer, Merlin carries on, fighting to keep his voice steady against his growing temper. "You don’t understand magic, Arthur. You would just have thought it was another of the sorcerer’s tricks. It wouldn’t have solved anything."

"I would have known who killed my father."

"I did." The words are out of Merlin’s mouth before he can stop them. His fingers tighten against the stone, knuckles white as he fights to get himself under control. "I didn’t mean to, but I did."

"I know." 

The sun has risen fully now, bright in Merlin’s eyes so that he can blame it for the blurring of his vision, the tears that he can’t seem to stop. The stone under his hands is cold, a counterpoint to the heat flooding his face, and his shoulders are trembling. He’d known Arthur would ask, would want to know everything he could, especially about this. They’d stumbled through the other revelations, never having time to stop and think, so that Arthur had been forced to accept everything as they went. Merlin hadn’t really given him the choice.

Now, with the hum of voices from the castle below, the echoes of footsteps, and the first bustling sounds of life getting back to normal, he feels oddly distant from it all. He can’t tell at all what Arthur is thinking, and he braces himself against the wall, waiting and listening to his heart thudding so loudly that surely Arthur must be able to hear it as well.

"The first step for getting the people of Camelot to learn to trust magic is for their king to trust it."

Merlin closes his eyes, trying to focus on Arthur’s words over the rushing of blood in his ears.

"And I cannot trust it," Arthur goes on. "I don’t know anything about magic, and I cannot trust what I don’t understand." He stops, taking a deep breath. "But I do trust you."

The stones that had started to shake under Merlin’s feet steady themselves, and he feels as though he’s come back to earth after a great fall. When he turns, Arthur’s expression is more gentle than he could have hoped for. 

"You knew about Agravaine, and I think you knew about Morgana as well." He holds up a hand before Merlin can speak. "Please, it’s taken me a long time to work out this speech and I’m damned if you’re going to interrupt me like you always do." He narrows his eyes in a threat that Merlin can’t take even a little seriously. "I think the stocks survived both the Southrons and the dragon."

Leaning back against the wall, Merlin spreads his hands in an obvious ‘carry on’ gesture, although he can’t stop the smile that’s starting to pull at his mouth.

"Right." Arthur frowns a little, apparently trying to find his place in his speech again. "Oh yes." He looks at Merlin, and there’s something like a hint of a smile on his face as well. "I suppose what it comes down to is that despite everything, the last week has shown me that I do trust you, even when I don’t know why. And it’s also shown me that magic isn’t something I can just ignore any more. I need to know about it, and if we are to be threatened by sorcerers, then we must have sorcerers to defend us as well."  
Some of the last of the fear is ebbing away, and Merlin feels almost giddy with relief. Not that he plans to let Arthur see that. He cocks his head. "Did Gwen help you with this? It’s very good."

This time when Arthur narrows his eyes, there’s something of a real threat there, but as he doesn’t have anything to actually throw right at this moment, Merlin figures he’s probably safe for now. 

"What I am trying to say," Arthur grinds out, sounding so annoyed that he’s almost like his usual self, "is that I am going to need someone to advise me on matters of sorcery. So, as soon as Gaius is feeling better-"

Merlin laughs, freely and easily and once he has started, he finds it hard to stop. The tight knot in his chest is gone, although his lungs are hurting now from trying to get air in past his laughter. When he manages to look up, Arthur’s expression is equal baffled and irritated, which sets him off again, half-slumped against the wall and whooping as he tries to breath. 

"When you’ve quite finished," Arthur says, drawing him back to earth. Merlin is wheezing a little, but he waves a hand vaguely in apology.

"Sorry, it’s just..." He gets stuck again, unable to put words around the feelings swirling through him. While they’d been on the run, Arthur knowing about his magic had been necessary, but it had been hard to feel that it was really going to make a difference. And now he’s standing here on the battlements, and Arthur is asking him to bring magic back to Camelot. 

If he doesn’t breathe soon, he’s going to faint, and that is not how he wants to start this, so he forces himself to calm down, standing up straight and facing Arthur properly at last. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, what he can possibly say to explain to Arthur what this means to him. Then he realises that he doesn’t have to, because from the way Arthur is looking at him, he already knows.

"Thank you," Merlin says.

Arthur rubs the back of his neck with one hand, which makes the pendant still hanging from his fingers twist and spin, catching the light. He lifts it, examining it closely for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is oddly distant, as though he can’t quite believe himself what he’s saying. 

"What happened was not an accident. Morgana and Agravaine killed my father, and they used you to do it." He looks past the pendant to Merlin. "You took a great risk in even trying to help him, I know that. And maybe one day, I’ll be able to say thank you." 

Lowering his hand, he holds the pendant out to Merlin, who takes it, noticing with some surprise that his hand isn’t shaking. 

The chain is cold to the touch, and now that he’s holding it, he can feel the power tingling at the back of his mind. He should can take it back to Gaius for studying properly, try to understand what Morgana did to it and have a counter-spell ready if anything like this happens again. 

He fixes his eyes on the pendant and says, _"Abreotan,"_ , and it glows red-hot for a moment before disintegrating into ashes that are carried away by the breeze. 

Arthur nods, apparently satisfied, then turns to lead the way back down into the castle, only noticing when he’s six steps away that Merlin hasn’t followed. "Are you coming? Tristan and Isolde want to see you before they leave. Apparently they're not prepared to take my word that the land I'm giving them is good. They want to see it for themselves. I think they're just trying to get away before Gwen makes Isolde a bridesmaid."

"I’ll be there in a minute."

"Well, don’t dawdle all day." Arthur gives him a lopsided grin that Merlin thinks he might be seeing a lot of over the next few months. "You’ve got a wedding to organise."

Laughing, Merlin says, "It’s your wedding, Arthur. Aren’t you and Gwen supposed to organise it?"

"I am the king, Merlin," Arthur replies with a good impression of indignation, "and Guinevere is going to be queen. That’s what we have servants for."

~

Merlin stands staring out over Camelot for a long time after Arthur leaves, watching a group of men trying to clear enough of the road to get a cart through. He stretches out his senses, past the boundaries of the town and castle, searching for and finding Kilgharrah.

 _"Did you hear?"_ Merlin asks, already knowing the answer.

 _"Yes."_

His sense of Kilgharrah has been dulled for the last day, as though the dragon has not only left the castle, but Merlin behind as well. Not entirely sure why, Merlin pushes a little harder, trying to get more from Kilgharrah than just the single word can tell him. He can tell that Kilgharrah is pleased by Arthur’s words, that he’s satisfied with the role he played, and that there is a hint of hope starting to creep into his mind. But underlying it all is something darker, sorrow and anger mixed in together, as well as a large portion of guilt.

 _"You have nothing to feel guilty about,"_ Merlin tells him. _"Aithusa made her choice."_

 _"She made the wrong choice."_ There is such bitterness in Kilgharrah’s mind that Merlin instinctively wants to reach out and try to soothe him, even knowing it will not be welcome. _"She has sided with the witch."_

_"And she may bring her back to us. I will not give up hope yet."_

_"Then let us hope you are not disappointed."_ Despite the skepticism in Kilgharrah’s voice, Merlin can hear a note of concession, that maybe this will not turn into the disaster it first appears to be. _"I wish to see Albion at peace, Merlin." _  
They have spoken of this so many times that Merlin can’t help but echo Kilgharrah’s words back to him. _"So do I, my friend. So do I."___

__He lets Kilgharrah slip away from him, back to the comfortable awareness that rests at the back of his mind. There will have to be a reckoning at some point; for all his hopes, he doesn't really believe that Morgana will just slip away quietly. At least this time, he will be able to stand by Arthur openly, and he will be ready._ _

__He hadn't been sure about this before, but he knows he can be now. There's a rightness to it as he presses his hands into the stones of the wall, feeling the rough surface grow warm at his touch. Camelot seems to awaken under his hands, a sleeping dragon roused to life, rising bold and fierce as the image on the Pendragon banners. Merlin gasps a little as his power settles over the city, making him aware of every living soul within, placing them under his protection. As he tips his head back a fluttering catches his eye and he turns towards it._ _

__On the highest tower, someone has managed to raise a standard. Its tattered edges are pulled by the breeze, flapping crazily for a moment before the body of the flag catches, unfurling and revealing the gold dragon at its centre. Merlin keeps his eyes on it as he finishes the spell, his vision washing with gold and his mind repeating the one word, over and over, _protect, protect, protect.__ _

__And somewhere on the very edge of his hearing, a dragon roars._ _

____

THE END


End file.
